Haunted
by MonicaMeMe
Summary: Following one of Sam’s premonitions, Dean and Sam end up in a town ripe with mystery and fraught with danger. And it has its eyes on Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** My first Supernatural Fanfic, so _please_ read and review. I welcome constructive criticism, and if it's long and detailed feel free to also email me. It's rated for language and Dean whumping in later scenes.

**Timeline: **Set some time after 'Asylum', which doesn't mean to say it's a PostAsylum story. Those issues will arise, but they won't dominate.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural in any way shape or form.

** Haunted **

CHAPTER ONE

"We're lost," Sam sighed, glancing at his brother. Dean was squinting trough the windshield, making a show of trying to see the road ahead through the pouring rain.

"We're not lost," Dean mumbled.

"Will you just admit we're lost?"

"We're not lost!"

"Then why haven't we seen anything but trees, muddy roads and cows for the past hour? _Cows_, Dean."

"We're taking the scenic route," Dean answered distractedly, shrugging.

Sam sighed again, restlessly leaning back against his seat. He could tell that Dean's newfound concentration was actually in pursuit of finding a sign or some telltale clue to their whereabouts, and he was losing patience with Dean's inability to admit it.

They'd been driving for hours. His legs were cramped and the humidity that the rain had created was beginning to eat at his nerves. And that music! Metallica blaring from the speakers over and over again.

Sam had had enough. In the best act of defiance he could think of, Sam leant forward and, with as much force as he could muster without actually breaking the damn thing, switched off the music.

"Hey!" Dean objected. Slapping away Sam's hand, he reached to turn it back on. But Sam was too quick. He grabbed the cassette tape, then lunged for the old cardboard box that Dean kept all his music in and dumped the whole thing in the backseat. He turned to Dean, satisfied with the loud clatter Dean's tapes made as they hit the seat.

Dean just raised an eyebrow, a smile flickering onto his face. "Panties in a twist, sweetheart?"

Sam shook his head, ignoring the urge to strangle his brother. He took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. "Look, Dean. I'm tired. We've been in this car for ages. Forget your ego for a moment. Lets just turn around and ask for directions at that diner we past earlier."

"Why?" Dean asked with the best innocent look Sam had seen him pull in a while.

"We. Are. Lost." Sam reiterated. He glared at Dean in exasperation until Dean dropped his innocent look and finally admitted to their predicament. Or as close to admitting as Sam could hope for:

"Well, you're the one with the map, college boy."

Sam raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. "Yeah, but you refused to follow any of my directions."

"I was taking a shortcut," Dean replied, smiling innocently again.

"A three-hour shortcut isn't a shortcut, Dean."

Dean just frowned, choosing to ignore that logic. But he couldn't ignore the desperation that had crept into his little brother's voice. He stole a glance at Sam, not liking the dark circles he found surrounding Sam's eyes.

"In fact, when you include a growing number of cow sightings to that three-hour shortcut," Sam continued, oblivious to Dean's concern, "it means we're going the wrong way."

"Chill, vision boy. We'll help those people in your dream. A few hours later than planned, maybe, but we'll still get to them. Just relax. Remember now," he waggled a finger in Sam's direction, "anger leads to the dark side."

Sam ignored him, choosing to stare out the window instead.

Dean instantly felt bad, but was careful not to let it show. _Damn those visions_, he thought. Not only did it have them chasing god-knows-what in some god-forsaken town miles out of their way, but it was haunting his brother with images of terrified townspeople. And Dean didn't know how to handle that. How could he protect Sam from his own mind? He couldn't. So he reacted the only other way he knew how – by joking away the concern. And if that was an unhealthy coping mechanism…well, Freud wasn't here to discuss any alternatives with him, so it'd have to do.

After a few moments of silence, Dean began singing under his breathe. "Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall…"

Sam didn't notice Dean's attempt to make Sam return his music. He had retreated back into his latest premonition, trying again to work out what the threat was that they needed to defeat.

His dream had shown a neat little neighborhood. Too quiet to be normal. Houses rowed up evenly, gardens cut precisely. The houses were large. Old. There was something behind one of those doors. Something dangerous. But he couldn't tell from which house he was sensing that energy. A little girl ran down the empty street, crying for help. Something was hurting her family. And that's when the dream became fuzzy. Sam knew there was something else, and though he had dreamt this same dream for days now, he was never able to recall what happened next. Something about…a room, maybe? A dark room. And two figures. Strangers, no brothers. Was it him and Dean? Dean and somebody else? Two completely different people? It was too fuzzy for him to make out. All he knew for sure was that they needed to be in a small town called Point Ardeer. And they had to be there with enough time to figure out what was going on and stop it before it killed that girl's family.

Sam was suddenly brought back to reality with a bump – a literal one – when the car swerved into a U-turn, knocking Sam's head against the window.

Sam looked over at Dean, a small smile overpowering the scowl he tried to give Dean for making him bump his head. Dean had finally decided to turn back.

Dean pretended to ignore both.

"_You're _asking for the directions," he finally said.

Sam chuckled. "That's fine."

"And just for the record, I'm only turning around for the impala's sake," Dean continued.

"The impala's sake?"

"Yeah. This road is covered in cow shit. Would _you _like to be walking through that?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm sure she'll thank you one day with a bouquet of flowers."

Dean retaliated to the sarcasm by continuing to sing where he'd left off. "90 bottles of beer on the wall…"

"Dean…" Sam warned. Dean knew Sam hated that song. Always had. Since they were kids. Mainly because Dean sung it every time he wanted to piss Sam off.

"Hey, you're the one that 'confiscated' my tunes. 90 bottles of beer…"

"Dean!" Sam implored.

"Kill joy," Dean mumbled, but he stopped singing.

The boys were so busy annoying each other, that they didn't notice the figure standing out in the rain, watching their car pass with cold, dark eyes.

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean gave the wheel a sharp turn and the impala skidded into the diner's parking lot. He looked over at Sam after hearing the soft thud that meant Sam had knocked his head again. 

"You gotta stop doing that," Dean said, with a grin that could rival the Cheshire cat's.

Sam was about to tell Dean where he could go, when a memory suddenly flashed across his vision. In that moment, Dean seemed to flicker out and become the stranger in his dream – streaked in dirt, blood staining his fingers, a wild look in his eyes.

"Sam? Saaaam." Dean clicked his fingers in front of Sam's eyes, shattering the image. Sam blinked a few times and refocused. Dean became his normal self again. No blood, no dirt. Sam ran a had across his face, trying to shake the image. Trying to work out what had happened. What it meant.

"Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean was looking at Sam, a frown creasing his brow.

Sam just shook his head, quickly collecting himself so that Dean would stop staring at him. "Nothing. I'm fine. I just…My mind just left me for a moment, that's all."

"Where'd it go?" Dean asked, trying to work out what had spooked his brother. And what had caused Sam to stare at him like that.

"Nowhere. Nothing. Come on. Lets go get directions before this place closes. And some coffee." He hopped out of the car without waiting for Dean's response. He knew Dean wouldn't like being brushed off, but he was too confused to worry about that.

And he was right. Dean wasn't happy. But Dean decided not to push it. Sam would tell him what was going on in his own time. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself, ignoring all the times Sam had only revealed certain things because he had no other choice. Like the fact that he had applied for college, or that he had dreamt about Jessica's death, or that he blamed Dean for not having found their dad yet.

Hell, their whole family wasn't exactly the share-all kind.

So instead of letting the concern linger, Dean quickly caught up with Sam and shoved him aside so that he could go through the door first.

"You're 26, not 12," Sam snorted, following Dean in, relieved Dean had dropped his inquisition.

Dean slapped Sam over the head and grinned. "And you remember that, _little _brother."

"Was that meant to be some sort of threat?" Sam asked, smiling. "Because you do know I'm bigger."

Dean shrugged, dismissing his argument. "Fuck off. I can still whoop your ass…" Dean trailed off, looking around the diner having finally realised how quiet it was. He was startled to find that everyone in the small diner was staring at him. Not at Sam. Him. But they quickly averted their eyes when Dean stopped speaking, noise finally entering the diner again as people resumed their conversations and eating.

Dean turned to raise an eyebrow at Sam, speaking more quietly than when he had entered. "I'm use to people staring when I walk into a room, but that was just weird."

"Very," Sam nodded, chilled. "Maybe we should go."

Dean was tempted to agree, but looking at Sam again he couldn't help but notice that the circles under his eyes had deepened.

"Nah," Dean said. "I'm not gonna be run out by group ogling. Lets just get the directions and find a motel for the night."

Dean sauntered up to the counter, more conscious of his movements than usual. Hell, who wouldn't be? He quickly scanned the people manning the counter. There was a older man with a big beer-belly. "Nope," Dean whispered, moving his eyes over to an older woman with a deep frown creasing her tired face. "Nope," he repeated, then checked out his last option. A young woman, about Sam's age, with a shy smile and big blue eyes. "Bingo," Dean grinned, walking up to her end of the counter. Sam rolled his eyes and followed.

Dean straddled one of the stools directly in front of her. "Uh, miss? Excuse me, miss?"

The girl turned to Dean, removing a pen from her pocket, ready to take his order. Dean flashed her one of his most charming smiles. "Actually," he leaned forward on the counter to read her nametag, "Mary, is it?"

The waitress nodded, a small blush creeping onto her cheeks.

"Nice name." Dean continued, "we're actually wondering if you could help us out." Dean looped his arm around Sam's shoulders, drawing his weary brother closer to the conversation. "Sam, here, got us lost."

"What!" Sam practically choked out, looking at Dean disbelievingly.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shoulders. Trust Dean to find a way to tell him to shut up without actually using any words.

"He has a sense of direction like a flyaway baseball, this guy. It's just drive with force and end up wherever the hell we end up. You know how it is."

"Yeah," the girl said, giggling softly.

Sam turned to the girl, feeling betrayed by this stranger. Then feeling betrayed with himself for feeling betrayed by a stranger. He finally decided he was too tired to argue with Dean, and swallowed any retorts, content for now with just glaring.

"Where you guys need to be?" the girl asked, eager to help.

"We're heading to Point Ardeer. Heard of it?"

The girl beamed, straightening up eagerly. "Well you're already here, silly!"

"We _are_?" Dean said, matching her enthusiasm with his own fake mix. Sam couldn't help smirking.

The girl didn't notice though. "Yeah! Well…sorta."

"Sorta?" Dean prompted.

"This diner sits at the very edge of Point Ardeer. To take in the traffic coming in or out. And so people like you got a place to stop and rest."

"Uh, that's…real nice of you guys," Dean said when she didn't continue.

"You just gotta drive a bit out, then take your first left and it'll take you to town."

Dean turned to Sam. "See, I told you we were close!" he whispered.

"Yeah… we would've been three hours closer if you'd just listened to my directions," Sam retorted in a normal voice, not bothering to whisper. "But again, what does a fly-away baseball know?"

Dean turned back to the girl, who was frowning at the exchange. But Dean quickly switched back on his charm and the girl's quizzical frown dissolved. "So, do you live in Point Ardeer?"

What? Sam couldn't believe it. Was Dean trying to get her number? Now, of all times?

"Yeah! I live –"

Sam cut her off. "Hey, Dean. Didn't you say you'd call your girlfriend about now, to check in?"

Mary frowned, clearly disappointed. Dean slowly turned and shot daggers at Sam, his smile twitching with the effort to remain intact and not turn into a growl.

"I need to go take some more orders." Mary quickly moved down the counter. Dean watched her go helplessly.

"Fucker," Dean muttered once Mary was out of earshot, cuffing Sam across the ear. Sam just chuckled, picking up the menu, suddenly hungry. Which had nothing to do with how amusing it would be to watch Dean awkwardly avoid Mary's gaze. Really.

Dean was about to complain some more, when he again noticed how quiet it'd become. He instantly forgot about his sabotaged chance with the waitress as he looked around to find most of the diner's patrons staring at him. Again! Only this time they were trying to veil their attention by relegating it to sidelong looks and quick glances. It wasn't working. A chill ran down Dean's spine. And given all the shit he was used to dealing with, Dean didn't get chilled easily.

Dean grabbed the back of Sam's jacket and yanked him from his chair, quickly dragging him out. "Lets stop at the diner," Dean muttered along the way, imitating Sam's voice. "What's the harm in asking for directions?" Once outside he quickly jumped into the car, unnerved by the looks he could _feel_ following him through the windows. "The harm is encountering my own little group of stalkers, that's what."

Sam followed Dean's gaze back to the diner's windows, frowning at the sea of faces turned towards them. Towards _Dean_, more accurately. Sam shot a glance at his brother as Dean fumbled for the keys. Did this have anything to do with that…vision, he guess he'd call it…he'd had of Dean earlier? Sam couldn't just ignore the coincidence.

He doubted the patrons in the diner could see much in the dark, but Sam was still relieved when Dean sped out of the parking lot. The further away they got from that place, the less his skin tingled. Sam turned to gauge out Dean's reaction to the whole thing – Dean's hands were gripping the wheel and he kept shooting disgusted looks into the review mirror. "I hate townies," Sam heard him mutter.

Sam asked the obvious question. "But why are they so interested in you of all people?"

"Hey!" Dean answered automatically.

"Dean," Sam said. He was being serious.

Dean threw his hands up in the air, taking them off the wheel for a moment to do so. "I dunno! My good looks? I don't know why, Sammy."

"Okay," Sam said gently, seeing that Dean was unnerved. "I guess we just - " Sam's sentence was cut short as he gasped, an image ripping across his vision: Someone – someone familiar – stood over a broken and battered body, a gun hanging from his stained red fingers, dirt smeared across his face. And then, as abruptly as it appeared, the image was gone and Sam was staring at the inside of the car again.

They'd stopped moving. Dean had pulled over the instant he heard Sam gasp. "You guess we just – gasp? What the hell, Sammy?"

Sam just stared at Dean, shocked by what he'd just seen. And shaken. Could that really have been his brother? Sam knew he should tell Dean what he saw…but… not yet. Not until he could work out what it all meant. His brother wasn't a killer. Not when it came to other humans, at least.

"It's nothing," he whispered, suddenly realizing how tired he was. "Lets just go find a motel."

"It's nothing?" Dean looked incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Really? Another nothing, huh? Gee, those nothings really pack a wallop." Dean frowned. "Why do you keep looking at me like that? Don't you start doing that weird staring shit too." When Sam didn't offer any further explanation, Dean twisted the review mirror around so he could look at his reflection. "Do I have an antler growing out of my head or something?"

Sam cracked a smile. "It would be an improvement."

Dean, smirking, responded by swerving back onto the road, making Sam grab onto the glove box to avoid bumping his head for the third time that day.

* * *

Dean and Sam trudged into what had just become their home for the length of their stay. They'd easily found an affordable motel right in the heart of Point Ardeer. "Jackpot," Dean had cheered when he saw the many food outlets surrounding the place. But Dean had something to take care of before he began scouring for the greasiest burger this town had to offer. He watched as Sam slowly removed his jacket, his eyes staring at something only he could see.

"Earth to Sammy," Dean joked in an effort to get his brother's attention.

"Huh?" Sam responded after a beat.

"You going to tell me about your latest Love-Hewitt moment, or what?"

That got Sam's attention. His head whipped towards Dean and he gaped a little, startled. How did Dean know?

"You look like a fish," Dean said dryly. He was a bit miffed by how shocked Sam looked all of a sudden. Did Sam really think his half-assed assurances would keep Dean from guessing what was going on?

"You…but…how…you knew?" Sam spluttered, taken off guard.

Dean grew more annoyed. "Well, yeah, I'm not stupid. You don't need a college education to tell when your brother's having another case of the shining." He looked at Sam sternly. "Or when he's trying to hide it."

Sam sunk onto one of the beds. The growing feeling of dread in his stomach making it impossible for him to remain standing. He hadn't wanted to tell Dean about his visions. Not yet. Not until he knew more. Hell, no one wants to tell their brother he might become a killer in the near future.

Sam heard Dean sit down on the bed opposite.

"Tell me what you saw, Sam," Dean said, confused and slightly worried by Sam's reaction.

Sam looked up at Dean. At those eyes that always shone with so much concern for him. How could they ever become the wild, cold eyes he saw in his 'dream'?

"No," Sam said.

"What?" Dean was taken aback.

"Not yet, anyway," Sam quickly corrected, seeing Dean's concern give way to daggers.

"Why the hell not?"

"Just…trust me, okay?" Sam implored.

Dean contemplated the request for a moment. "No," he finally said in the same tone Sam had used earlier.

It was Sam's turn to look taken back.

"Look Sammy, whatever it is, we can deal with it. We can stop it. But only if I know what we're up against here."

When Sam still looked unsure, Dean continued, opting for a different tactic. "And we're not moving from this room until you tell me." He took his keys and clipped them onto his belt, leaning back on the bed with a content sigh, eyeing Sam the whole time.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, getting a bit annoyed himself. Why couldn't Dean just let it be? Just this once? "You're serious." It wasn't a question.

"Like a bald spot."

So Sam told him. He probably shouldn't have, and most likely wouldn't have if Dean wasn't being so stubborn. But as it is with brothers, sometimes better judgment isn't an option. So Sam told him. About what he'd seen. About the figure leaning over the battered body. About…and here he faltered, but was somehow able to eventually dreg out the words…about believing the figure was Dean. And about the shotgun in his hand.

Sam looked up when Dean didn't say anything. Dean was staring at him with an odd expression. Sam couldn't work out what it meant.

"So you're sure it was me. You saw my face and it was, without a single doubt, my face? My hand holding the gun. Mine. Not some good looking fool who just looked like me?"

"Well…not exactly," Sam admitted. He hadn't actually _seen_ the figure holding the gun so much as felt it. The flashes had been too quick to get a good look.

Sam was looking down at his feet, so he didn't see the flash of hurt that crossed Dean's face. When he looked up, he only saw the anger than remained.

"So you just _assumed_ it' was me?" Dean asked, tight-lipped.

Sam didn't know how to respond. And Dean could tell; Sam was doing the fish thing again.

"I just…it just _felt_ like you. I don't know how else to explain it."

Dean shrugged, trying to keep his hurt and anger at bay. "Then it must have been evil. That thing 'I' shot."

"No, Dean," Sam responded quietly. "He was human."

Dean abruptly stood up and began pacing. He couldn't look at Sam anymore. "You think I could just kill someone in cold blood? Just like that."

"No! Of course not. There's got to be an explanation for why you'd shoot that person. _I _know that. We just need to work out what it is."

Sam was looking at Dean with sympathy. Or was it pity? Dean couldn't tell and he didn't care; he wanted Sam to knock it off. So it went for the low blow: "Because if I recall correctly, you're the trigger happy one."

Sam looked like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. But he quickly recovered and gave a hollow laugh. "Fuck you, Dean. I've apologized a thousand times for that. If you don't want to talk about what happened at the asylum, then you can't bring it up as fuel against me."

"Careful now, Sam. Don't want to get too annoyed at me. Never know when there'll be a spirit around giving you an excuse to go ape-shit on my ass."

Sam sprang up and yanked his jacket from the chair it was on. "I'm going to get us dinner." And he was out the door, strangely proud that he'd resisted his juvenile urge to slam it behind him.

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode to the furthest food store on their block, needing the time away from his brother. And not to mention the sudden cold that had enveloped the dark street was refreshing compared to the earlier humidity.

Sam _knew_ he shouldn't have told Dean what he saw. Knew it would upset him._ Stupid! _Sam berated himself. Why did he always cave to his brother's demands? Whatever rift had opened between them after the incident at the asylum was obviously still in need of patching, and telling Dean that he believed he was going to end up killing someone in the near future sure wasn't the first step to closure. He just wished Dean would let them talk through what had happened. Wished he wasn't so hot-headed all the time.

Sam was brought out of his thoughts by a sudden chill. It had just become incredibly cold. Icy, even. He could see his own breath! He hugged his body tightly and jogged into the nearest food outlet.

There was only one other person in the shop (it was getting pretty late) – an older man who lent casually on the counter, chatting with the clerk. The clerk smiled at Sam – an automatic reaction to hearing the tinkering bells above the entrance - while the older man just eyed him. Not unfriendly, just curious.

Checking out his options, Sam settled on two packaged hamburgers, two bottles of root beer and a pack of M&Ms. He paid and was on his way out, when the older man addressed him. What he said stopped Sam in his tracks.

"Your brother isn't welcome here."

Sam slowly turned around, the chill returning. And this time it had nothing to do with the mysterious weather.

"What did you say?"

The man walked up closer. He stopped a few paces away, though, and stared Sam in the eye. Not menacing, just grave.

"I saw him at the diner. He's loud and swears and hits on our innocent girls. That kind ain't welcome here."

Sam frowned, that's why Dean was being singled out? His lack of manners? Sam was caught between wanting to laugh in relief and wanting to get him and Dean the hell away from here. Something didn't feel right.

"Um, I'll make sure to wash his mouth out." Sam waited for the man to respond angrily, to grab him by the arm and demand they leave his town. Hell, Sam had seen enough small-town horror flicks to expect the clichés.

But the angry retort didn't come. The man didn't so much as glare. He just looked at Sam with…was that sadness in his eyes?

Sam broke the gaze first and quickly ran out of the store, the store bells ringing ominously behind him. His spider senses were tingling; he had to get back to his brother. Now.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **A _big_ thank you to everyone who reviewed and added this story to their favorites list. I hope this next installment doesn't disappoint. In might be some time before I update again, given that I'm going on a holiday in a few days and my computer access will be limited during that time, but I promise to post the instant I return. In the meantime, please continue to read and review, I really appreciate the feedback.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural in any way shape or form.

CHAPTER TWO

And he was out the door. Dean watched Sam go, wrestling the impulse to call him back.

Instead, Dean grabbed one of the room's small chairs and roughly pulled it back from the desk, plopping down on it. He tapped his fingers on the desk restlessly. But he could see Sam's retreating back from here, so he jumped up and sat on the bed furthest from the window, grabbing his duffel bag with the tip of his boot and dragging the thing towards him. He withdraw their dad's journal and began restlessly flipping through the pages. He wasn't really paying it any attention though – he knew those worn pages almost by heart. But then his eyes fell on that photo – the one of him, Sam and their dad, and he sighed, running a hand through his short hair.

Okay, so maybe yelling at Sam about something Dean had pushed him into divulging in the first place wasn't the classiest move, but…_No, you know what_, Dean cut himself off, _I have a right to be pissed off – it isn't exactly a hissy fit when murder accusations are involved. _

Drawing from experience, Dean quickly shut off his senses to anything but the frustration he was feeling – concentrating on it until it eclipsed any of the emotions that had caused him to get so upset in the first place. Satisfied that he'd eradicated any strands of self-pity or guilt that were trying to disrupt his frustration, Dean grabbed a clean (it smelled relatively clean, at least) shirt and strode into the motel's tiny bathroom to take a shower. He made sure to slam the door behind him; even though there was no one else around to hear it, slamming things made Dean feel better.

A little while later, Dean hopped out of the shower and dressed. Realizing he'd left his shaver in his bag, Dean went to grab it. Sam hadn't returned yet. Dean shot a glance at the room's alarm clock. It had only been fifteen minutes. Not long enough to start worrying.

Dean grabbed his duffle bag and plunged a whole arm into it, rummaging around for his razor. His fingers brushed against an assortment of items and he managed to find that old Snickers bar he'd been saving, but no razor. He finally had to turn the bag upset down and shake all the contents out. How did he ever find anything in this thing? Dean's eyes involuntarily slid towards Sam's backpack as it sat neatly on his bed. He bet Sam's razor was neatly stowed away in the same compartment each time they packed and moved on. He glared at it.

Dean was so busy rummaging through his wrinkled possessions that it took him several minutes to realize that his quiet muttering wasn't the only sound filling the motel room. He stood up straight and quieted his breath, listening.

The noise was coming from the bathroom - from behind its closed door. It sounded like running water. Dean hadn't left any taps on. Reaching first for his small shot gun, the one filled with rock salt – he knew where to find this, at least – Dean slowly moved towards the closed door. Pausing right outside, he leant his ear against it. Yep, definitely the sound of gushing water.

Maybe a pipe gave out, Dean tried to reason, before his real sense of reason kicked in: Yeah, when the hell is it ever the normal explanation. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean quickly swung the door open to reveal…nothing. Nothing that interesting, at least. No ghost, no messages on the walls, no taps spurting blood. Only a bathtub that was quickly filling with ordinary water as it gushed from its ordinary tap.

Maybe it _was_ just the pipes. Dean entered the small room cautiously, though, keeping his arm outstretched, the gun leveled in front of him. Edging towards the tub, he quickly glanced down to make sure there wasn't anything actually _in _it, before reaching to turn the water off.

It was in that moment that he noticed a flicker out of the corner of his eye. He had just enough time to look up and see a ghostly figure – grayish in colour with cold, dead eyes – glaring at him fiercely through the cabinet mirror, before he felt its hand grab him from behind and shove his head into the water.

As his head and shoulders hit water, Dean involuntarily gasped. The water was cold! Like ice! But gasping was a bad move – the water rushed into his mouth, down his throat, the iciness burning him as it stung his eyes and blocked his nose. He was choking, and coughing made it worse.

Shit! He was going to drown. In a bathtub!

Dean panicked, struggling with every bit of strength, his arms slipping against the slick tile, his hands clawing at the bottom of the tub, trying desperately to find a grip so that he could lever himself out. But the harder he struggled, the tighter that thing held onto Dean's neck. Dean could feel the fingers digging in – at this rate his neck would snap before he even got a chance to drown.

That thought, and the black fog that had begun to creep across his vision, gave Dean the incentive to pool all his remaining strength into one last struggle. He lashed out with his legs, thrashed around his body, writhed his neck to try to dislodge the viselike grip.

He felt the pressure on his neck loosen, and though his lungs were exploding and his throat burning, Dean could've sung out in relief. But, all of a sudden, the creature recovered his grip and angrily slammed Dean further into the water. Dean's teeth knocked together as his chin smashed into the tiles, his elbows and wrists connecting with the tub just as painfully. Whirlpools of red began swirling in the water, expanding in front of Dean's eyes as quickly as his energy flowed out of him.

_I'm going to die…_The realization stung more than the cold. _Where are you, Sammy…_

Instinctively clinging onto his last shred of awareness, Dean heard his attacker whisper something:

"Bet you're sorry now."

* * *

_You'll barge in like a maniac and Dean will be sitting there watching TV, complaining about how long I took_. Sam kept repeating this to himself, hoping it would quiet the unease he'd been feeling since his little encounter with that local.

Reaching the motel in less than half the time it had taken him to leave it earlier, Sam barged in like a maniac and found an empty room staring back at him. The unease tripled, beating against his chest.

"Dean?" Sam called, chucking the plastic bag full of food onto the closest bed. He hurried towards the bathroom door and pounded on it. "Dean! You in there?"

When he received no answer, he rattled the doorknob in the off chance that the door was unlocked. It wasn't. Sam quickly backed up, getting ready to kick the door in. His unease had mutated into downright fear.

Sam hesitated for a split second – he did hear running water, maybe Dean just couldn't hear him over the shower. But Sam wasn't about to take that chance. "Just please don't be naked," he muttered, and kicked open the door. It flew open, bits of wood flying in all directions.

Sam ran inside but slipped on the large puddle of water that had spilt over from the bathtub. He grabbed onto the towel rack as his legs gave way under him, which must have been instinctual given that what he saw instantly slackened every muscle.

Dean was being held underwater by what looked like a ghost in human form. It was a grayish colour with deep, black eyes set in a young face contorted by rage. But all Sam cared about was that his brother wasn't struggling. His brother was limp, the only movement coming from a few twitches racking his brother's limbs.

Though time slowed to an excruciating pace the moment Sam saw Dean's still body, the ghost actually disappeared the instant it locked eyes with Sam. But, in the moment, Sam could care less about that thing. He skid and slid across the wet floor, falling to his knees beside Dean, hauling his body out of the water.

Dean's limp form fell against Sam. Eyes closed, lips swollen, his face a strange mixture of blue and red, this Dean looked foreign to Sam's eyes. It sent a chill down his spine.

"Dean!" Sam cried, cradling his brother's body close to him, using his free hand to tap Dean's cheeks. _Jesus!_ They were cold to the touch. "Dean! Come on, man, open your eyes. Please." There was blood trickling from Dean's mouth, turned pink from the water. Sam shook him a little. Still no response.

"Shit!" How long had he been under? As quickly, and as gently, as his shaking hands allowed, Sam lay Dean's body on the ground, tilting Dean's head back, getting ready to initiate mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But before he got the chance, Dean spluttered into life, water shooting out of his mouth as he rolled to the side, coughing and gasping for breath.

"Don't you dare," he managed to rasp out between his struggle to suck in air while simultaneously coughing out the water he'd swallowed.

Relief flooded into Sam with such force that he collapsed against the bathtub, laughing. He knew that laughing while Dean was still flat on the floor, coughing with enough force to ripple the puddles of water around him, was inappropriate. But he couldn't stop. His brother was alive! Sam was sitting there on the floor of a motel bathroom, his pants soaking in water stained pink with his brother's blood, but Dean was alive!

Fuck… Dean had almost died.

That thought quickly sobered Sam up. His insane laughter faded. He was sitting in Dean's blood, wasn't he? He clambered over to where Dean was now sitting, having managed to lift himself up off the ground with shaky arms. Dean's head was resting on his knees. Sam could hear Dean's shuddering breath as he concentrated on getting his breathing back to normal, visibly wincing every time a gulp of air passed through his sore throat.

Sam gave Dean the time he needed, quietly sitting beside him.

When Dean finally got the energy to lift up his head, a few minutes later, he found Sam staring at him worriedly. Dean managed to mold his features into his usual grin. "Talk about your brain freeze."

Sam snorted, the relief again threatening to overpower him.

"Sam," Dean croaked after a moment, the hesitation in his voice instantly getting Sam's attention.

"Yeah?"

Dean sighed, struggling to get out the words, though it had nothing to do with his sore throat. He wasn't looking at Sam when he finally spoke. "Do you really think I could kill someone?"

Sam was shocked. The tone that Dean had asked that with…it was earnest, almost vulnerable – devoid of any frustration or sarcasm or…anything! And it was for this reason that Sam didn't answer right away. He was taken aback, the relief that had filled him earlier quickly giving way to shame as he realised that Dean actually felt he needed to ask that question.

Sam's shocked silence seemed to knock Dean's sense of control back into him, and he quickly recovered from the shaken state his close-encounter had left him in.

"Because if I don't get into some warm clothes soon, I'm going on a murdering spree."

"Dean," Sam began. But Dean cut him off, like Sam knew he would.

"How'd you fight it off?" Dean looked at Sam, distractedly rubbing his chest as his lungs depressurized.

Sam sighed. He'd let it go for the time being.

"I didn't. I ran in, slipped, and he disappeared."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding me."

"Serious."

"Gee, you're just a regular gung-ho Charlie." Dean used the bathtub to lever himself off the floor, waving off Sam's help. "Hey, go find me some dry clothes, would you."

Sam hesitated. Dean just rolled his eyes. "I promise to call you if another freak comes out to play. Give you a chance to orchestrate your slip and slide attack."

Sam smiled. Dean's voice still sounded gravelly, but at least his sarcasm had returned. "Hey, never underestimate the element of surprise."

Dean chuckled. "Falling on your ass _is _surprising. Not if he knew you, of course, but lucky for you I'm the only one who knows what a klutz you are."

Sam shook his head, a smile playing on his lips as he left the room.

Knowing that it'd take Sam some time to locate a clean outfit in the bundle of possessions strewn across the bed, Dean took this chance to check out the damage that ghost thing had caused. A coppery taste had been welling in his mouth since the black fog had cleared from his vision and he'd found himself on the floor. He spat the blood out into the sink, and quickly checked that all his teeth were intact. _If that thing left me writing to Santa for my two front teeth, I swear to God…_

But his teeth were all fine. The blood had come from a split in his lip from when he'd hit the tile. He quickly cleaned it up, avoiding looking in the mirror lest he saw that ghost again. Okay, so Dean was a bit shaken. He wasn't going to pretend he wasn't. At least not while Sam was out of the room.

But as the pain in his chest retreated to a dull throb, so too was Dean able to shove aside his sense of foreboding. He and Sam had a job to do. And once that was done they could leave this god forsaken town for good and forget that death seemed to be chasing him lately.

* * *

Looking at Dean for the third or fourth time since he'd emerged from the bathroom, Sam couldn't help smirking. Dean was leaning up against the pillows in his bed, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, a heatpack placed carefully under his feet. In one hand he held a hairdryer up to his hair, with the other he munched on his hamburger. All while watching the TV loudly. He sure looked content for someone who had almost just drowned.

"A picture lasts longer," Dean said in between bites, not taking his eyes off the tube.

Sam chuckled. "You're unbelievable, you know that."

Dean grinned. "Why, thank you."

Sam shook his head, closing his laptop. "Only you would use a near-death experience to get out of researching." He said it lightly.

Dean shrugged. "It was a traumatizing experience. I almost drowned in a teeny bathtub in a dinky little motel room. The only way my death might have been more humiliating is if I'd choked on a rubber duckey." Dean finally let his eyes travel from the television set. "How's that going anyway? Find anything that might explain who our friendly visitor was?"

"Not yet," Sam sighed. "This town has a pretty standard local history. No whisperings of anything darker going on."

"Bet you're sorry now."

"What?" Sam asked, turning towards Dean. Dean switched off the hairdryer and placed his half-eaten burger on the bedside table.

"It's what that ghost said. I almost forgot."

"Bet you're sorry now?"

"Yeah." Dean's memory flashed back to the whispered remark. He had almost lost consciousness when that thing had said it. But though a black fog was covering his thoughts like a thick blanket, that voice – torn into by rage - had cut through the thickening blanket and seared into Dean's memory: Bet you're sorry now.

Sam voice brought Dean back to the present. "Sorry? About what?"

Dean shrugged. "Using up all the hot water? I mean Christ, that water was ice cold."

Sam was about to tell Dean to be serious, when his own memory offered him some answers. Hadn't he wished Dean would stop being so hot-headed just as that icy wind passed by? Sam felt the color drain from his cheeks. No. No way. It had to be a morbid coincidence. There was no way in hell he had played any part in what happened to Dean. But…god, there was no way! He'd never want to hurt his brother! It just wasn't possible. He was connecting dots with lines that didn't exist.

"Sam?" Dean was staring at him, eyebrow cocked.

Sam mentally shook himself, trying to dislodge those thoughts from his head. "Um, it's noth - "

"Let me guess," Dean cut in, holding up his hand. "It was nothing. And then I say 'Sure it was', and you say, 'Gosh golly, really it wasn't anything', but I know different coz I'm freakin' insightful like that, but you just stare at me like a wounded puppy dog and insist it's nothing. Whatever. I know the routine. I'm going to bed."

Dean turned the TV off and flipped onto his side, yanking the sheets over his head. Though he popped out from under them a second later to switch off the bedside lamp, before disappearing under the covers again, leaving Sam sitting in the sudden dark.

Sam didn't move for a while. He just stared ahead, watching as the room's dark shadows seemed to waver in and out as his eyes adjusted. His brother was in danger. Any moron could see that. But the question was _why_. What did Dean have to do with his vision of that little girl running down the street. Was the ghost that attacked Dean responsible for her fear? But why had it disappeared when Sam entered. And why was the town so concerned with Dean and his…cussing. None of it made sense!

Sam opened his laptop again. Yes, he was tired. Exhausted even. But he had to try to find some explanation. Even just some breadcrumbs leading them in the right direction. And if only to silence the little film reel in his head that was replaying, over and over again, that moment Sam had felt the air grow cold as he wished Dean weren't so hot-headed.

About half hour into his research, a lamp popped on, giving relief to Sam's strained eyes. Surprised, Sam glanced up to catch Dean's hand snake back under his covers. Sam smiled.

* * *

Dean stirred in his sleep, pulling the covers tighter around himself. His chin still ached from where it'd hit the tile and sleep hadn't come easily because of it. Now he could feel Sam hovering over him. "Dammit Sam," Dean mumbled into his pillow. "I'm fine, let me sleep."

"Wha…" Sam answered sleepily, his own voice muffled by his own pillow.

Wait a minute. If Sam was over there…

Dean's eyes sprung open, his hand instantly reaching for his knife.

"Holy crap!" Dean shouted, springing up from his bed.

Hovering over him had been another ghost. This one also in human form – also young with dead eyes, though not as cold or cruel. But it'd disappeared the instant Dean yelled. Dean's heart pounded against his chest, his hand clutching the knife. He turned to put it down on the table, only to find himself staring at that ghost again. His yell froze in his throat as the ghost leant forward, wrapped his fingers around Dean's face to silence him, and whispered into Dean's ear.

"Archers Way…"

Then it disappeared again. And light flooded the small room. Sam was standing over the light switch, staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean stared back, unable to form any words. He took a shuddering breath and ran a hand over his face, he could still feel those dead fingers against his skin. He put the knife back under his pillow. It would be useless against the see-through.

"What happened?" Sam asked, his eyes still wide.

"You didn't see it?" Dean asked. How could he not have seen it? It'd been practically glowing! Collecting whatever small amount of light was in the room and drawing it to himself. _What a showoff._ Insulting the ghost seemed to help Dean calm down.

"It was another Casper. Just…watching me sleep. I feel violated." Dean grabbed some clothes off the ground and threw them on over his shorts. No way he was getting back to sleep now.

"Did it hurt you?" Sam asked, instantly alarmed.

"No. Scared the crap out of me though. Dudes just don't watch other dudes sleep. Dead or not. It's wrong."

Sam checked the glowing digits of the alarm clock. 5:43. He's just gone to sleep a couple of hours ago. Maybe that's why he hadn't woken up the instant the otherworldly presence had entered their room – he was just too tired to be properly alert.

"That's all it did?" Sam asked Dean, watching as Dean strode across the room, kicking away his duffle bag as his feet got tangled in it and then grabbing the laptop and quickly switching it on.

"He whispered something." Dean typed in the phrase and hit search. Still a bit shell shocked, Sam drew up a chair and looked at what results the search yielded.

"Archers Way?" Sam said, surprised.

"Yeah. That's all he said. Why, you heard of it?" Dean stopped his search and looked at Sam, noting the recognition that had filled his brother's voice.

"Last night. Uh, not through any ghostly means. I was trying to find some information about this town that would help explain what's going on, and I stumbled across some random kid's blog entry. It was called Pod People Paradise."

"And you still read it?" Dean asked, amused.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well conventional sources weren't giving me much help. But, this kid, he said he has a cousin who lives in - get this - Archers Way, Point Ardeer."

That got Dean's attention.

"And that whenever he visited this cousin, he'd always hear these strange noises at night. Like rattling and screams. But no one else who lived in that block would ever acknowledge the sounds. Hence the pod people thing. He even goes on to mention the five houses that he thought the noise might be coming from."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "No shit? He did the work for us?"

"Looks like it," Sam said, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, there's no harm in checking out those houses he mentioned. Thanks to your encounter we know there's something going on there."

Dean shut the laptop. "Okay," he nodded.

Sam hopped up, grabbing his jacket.

Dean frowned at him from where he remained sitting. "Whoa, slow down tiger. Where you going?"

"Uh…to check out those houses." Sam frowned back.

"Dude, it's like six in the morning. We aint going anywhere."

Sam was lost for words for a moment. "Dean, we're always up early on hunts."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah well, to check out those houses we gotta get in first. And who's going to let us in after waking them up at six in the morning. It's a Saturday. Plus, I'm going to have to start calling you crater face if your eyes sink in any further. Go. Sleep. We'll hunt bad things later."

Sam _was_ tired, and a few extra hours of sleep _would_ help to revive him. He quickly decided he didn't want to argue Dean's point. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

Dean just smiled. He hopped up and grabbed his bag, opening it. "Oh, you know," he grabbed a scythe and placed it on the table beside him. He then pulled out his shot gun and cradled it in his arms. Lastly, he scooped out the pack of M&Ms from the plastic bag of food that Sam had bought earlier. "Just hang out a bit." He sat in a chair close to the door, gun held protectively, scythe sitting close by, M&Ms open in front of him.

Sam chuckled, getting back into bed, feeling his body begin to relax the instant he hit the sheets. "I feel sorry for the next Casper that tries to sneak up on you."

"If it's a friendly ghost, it has nothing to worry about." Dean cocked his gun. "But when's that ever the case?"

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry it's taken this long to update – I only just returned from my computer-free holiday. But, like was promised, I've posted instantly on return, having used my time lazing on the beach to mentally brew up this third chapter. I hope you enjoy! And once again, a big gigantic _thank you_ to everyone who reviewed and added this story to their favorites list! I really appreciate the feedback – good or bad. So please continue to review, as I've discovered not only am I a spoiler-whore, but a review one too. And your guesses and speculations have been great to discover.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural in any way shape or form.

**Haunted**

**Chapter 3**

Sam woke with a start. Had he just been hit with a pillow? Sam sat up and indeed found a pillow lying at the side of the bed, having fallen there after bouncing off his head. Dean stood a feet away, jacket on, duffle packed and ready by his feet. He was staring at Sam impatiently.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty, rise and shine already."

Sam rubbed the sleep from his eyes and then blearily looked at Dean. "Did you just chuck a pillow at me?"

"Dude, it's almost lunchtime. Move your ass," Dean replied in answer. He scooped up Sam's jacket and chucked that at him also.

Sam caught the jacket before it could smack him in the face and gave Dean an incredulous look. "_You're _the one who said I could sleep-in, remember?"

Dean shrugged, proceeding to pick up Sam's shoes and throw them at the foot of his bed. "Yeah well, not for this long! I've been so fricken bored I almost wished another ghost would attack me. Now, come on! Lets go find some bad guys."

Dean was out the door so quickly that Sam could have sworn a group of cheerleaders were waiting outside. Sam shook his head as he threw back the covers and dressed at a normal pace. Only Dean would prefer to chase deadly demons over being bored.

A few minutes later, Sam walked outside to find Dean sitting in his car, his head rolling on the seat impatiently. Sam smirked and jumped in.

"Anyone ever tell you that patience is a virtue?"

"Anyone ever tell you that you should shut up?"

Sam chuckled and reached into the backseat for the map. "Okay, so Archers Way is about 10 minutes from here." He folded up the map as Dean started up the car.

Sam couldn't resist one last jibe. "And I don't want to hear any 'are we there yet's from you, okay young man?" He was rewarded with a punch in the arm.

Ten minutes later, the brothers arrived at Archers Way. Dean parked the car at the side of the first street and they hopped out, looking around.

"This the place from your dreams?" Dean asked. If the ghost had pointed them in this direction, it made sense that Sam's premonition would lead them here also. Or so Dean hoped. He really didn't want to be chasing two nasties at once. One mystery per town was definitely enough for him.

Sam was carefully staring ahead – absorbing the street's detail and trying to match it with what little he'd seen in his vision.

"I think so," he replied after a moment.

"You're not certain?"

Sam rubbed the back of his head, squinting in concentration. "Well…suburbs have always kinda looked alike to me."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Well, try and get over that David Lynch complex, and tell me if we're in the right place. Don't those visions of yours have a zoom-in button, or something?"

Sam sighed and took another look around. Leaving Dean by the car, he walked up closer to some of the houses. Shouldn't he be feeling something – some kind of deja vu – if this were the place from his dreams?

The street was filled with large houses lined up against each other. But without a terrified girl running down the middle, he was finding it hard to distinguish this street from all the others they'd passed. The lawns were all cut neatly, the trees trimmed evenly, the flowers colourful and alive. Though, there was one thing about Archers Way that struck Sam as odd: As hard as he looked, Sam could find nothing out of place - not a single toy or garden utensil lay about, not one flower wilted, not one car had any mud or dirt on it. He was also beginning to feel unsettled by how still the street was. It was close to eleven in the morning, yet no people were out walking, no children played on the streets. He couldn't even hear any families shouting at each other from behind closed doors, or even a single dog barking.

Sam abruptly turned and strode back to Dean, who was leaning against the car, watching him.

"This is the place," Sam said.

"You getting a bad juju vibe?" Dean asked, pushing away from the car.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "It's the exact same quiet from my dream."

Dean nodded; Sam didn't have to explain, he too had noticed how unnaturally still the place was. Dean reached into the car and removed the list of five houses that the blog entry had listed as possible sources for the strange noises that plagued the town at night. He stared at the list for a moment, a rare sense of hesitation forming in his stomach. They were walking into this hunt practically blind. They had no real idea of what they were up against, and the only real clues they had came from ghosts and bloggers. What if behind one of these five doors lived the guy he was meant to shoot?

Dean mentally shook himself, dislodging the thought. This wasn't the time to let doubt creep in; when on the hunt, he had learnt to push anything aside that would interfere with his training and instincts. That philosophy had served him well so far; he wasn't about to rewrite it now.

"Here," Dean said, handing the list to Sam. "Let's start from the top."

Both were suddenly distracted, though, by a movement near the end of the street. They had grown so accustomed to the still nature of their surroundings, that it was almost startling to see a young woman casually strolling into the street and up her driveway.

"Hey, it's that waitress!" Dean exclaimed. "What's her face…um," he clicked his fingers. "Mary. That's it."

"So?" Sam said wearily. "Dean, we don't have time to entertain your hormones."

Dean shot Sam a withering stare. "She lives on this street, dumbass. Hormones have nothing to do with it." He shrugged. "She might be in danger."

Sam wasn't buying it. "Her house isn't one of the five."

"Just come on," Dean hissed, grabbing Sam's arm and pulling him forward. Sam rolled his eyes, but followed, ignoring the frustration welling in his stomach. Who knows? Maybe Dean was following an instinct other than the primal one.

"Unlikely," Sam muttered to himself as Dean dragged him up the porch steps.

"What was that?" Dean asked, ringing the doorbell eagerly. His hearing was sharp.

Sam sighed. "Nothing. I was just reminding myself that a hormonal 15-year old lives beneath your skin."

An odd smile curved Dean's lips. "With all his irrational fears of what's behind closed doors."

Before Sam had a chance to absorb those words, to realize that perhaps Dean was using this chance to put off discovering whether a killer lurked within him, the door swung open. The off-duty waitress beamed when she saw Dean.

"Hey. It's you!" she said.

"Hey. It's me," Dean replied, grinning. "Can we come in?"

"Sure." She stepped aside and let the brothers enter, leading them into a small living room. "What are you two doing here?"

"I'd like to know that myself," Sam muttered, but managed to mold his face into a smile when Dean elbowed him in the ribs.

"We've heard that this town is experiencing some unusual sounds and we were commissioned by the local council to deal with the issue. We need to inspect each house in this area individually." Dean's smile sparkled. "Would you like to show us around?"

Before she could answer, they heard heavy footsteps approaching. Rounding the corner and entering the living room appeared a heavy-set man whose soft blue eyes left no doubt that he was the father. He smiled in surprise when he saw that his daughter was entertaining guests.

"Why, hello there," he said. "Who do we have here?"

Mary told him about how Dean and Sam were commissioned to inspect the local houses. The father looked at them with renewed interest. "Is that right?" he exclaimed, a larger smile overtaking his original one.

"Yes," Dean responded, wearied by this man's enthusiasm.

"I've been a mite concerned with those noises myself," he said.

"You have?" Dean asked, surprised. He shot a look at Sam who returned it with burgeoning interest. Hadn't that blogger said everyone living here refused to acknowledge the sounds?

"Sure have," the man continued. "Odd noises. Can't quite place what they are or where they come from. Only at night too. But I guess you fellas will solve that mystery, now won't ya?" He chuckled, clearly unperturbed.

Those noises aren't anything more than an annoyance to him, Sam realised. He has no inkling that anything sinister could be behind them. And he wasn't enthralled with staring at Dean the way those people at the diner had been.

"I'm actually president of neighborhood-watch around these parts," the man continued. "I'll be sure to let everyone know you two are coming."

Dean's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly recovered his composure. Just his luck – he followed a cute girl and winded up meeting the one person who'd ruin any element of surprise that he and Sam had possessed in this hunt. Dean stubbornly refused to look at Sam. He just knew a huge I-told-you-so was coming.

Sam, meanwhile, was resisting the urge to smack his brother upside the head. _Dammit, Dean_, he thought.

"What does the council think the sounds are?" the man asked.

Still a bit off guard, Dean drew a blank for a second before blurting out the first thing that popped into his head:

"Rats," Dean nodded.

"Ew!" Mary squealed.

"Ah," the man frowned.

"Big rats."

"Well, we should head off," Sam said, standing quickly. The less they tried to fabricate an explanation, the less likely this man was to grow suspicious. And, Sam refused to let Dean drag him through this house looking for imaginary rats while Dean hit on this squealing waitress. "We'll be sure to inform you if we find anything."

Mary and her dad stood up also, each shaking hands with the boys. Dean followed Sam out without complaint, only a small pout marring his features.

Just short of the hallway, Sam stopped and turned back towards the man. "How long have you guys lived in this town? Just out of curiosity."

"Moved in three weeks ago," he beamed.

"Okay, thanks again for your help."

Once in the hallway, Dean punched Sam in the arm. "We could've learnt more from those two. Why you gotta be such a stick in the mud?"

Sam didn't hesitate to swat Dean back. "They're new here. They have no idea about what's going on. They are, in all sense of the word, clueless. And a clueless neighborhood-watch president can be as bad for us as an evil one. Good work, Sherlock."

"Hey, I came up with a good cover story," Dean said, defensively.

"Rats, Dean? _Big_ rats?"

Dean frowned, growing annoyed at his brother's attitude. "I didn't hear you jumping in with anything better. What's the big deal, anyway? So a few people think we're here chasing after rats. Ooh, scary. Let's start running for the hills."

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his frustration at bay. "The big deal is that instead of looking into five houses, we're expected to check into every one on this block. And with everyone expecting us, I doubt we'll be able to walk in and find the source of those noises greeting us in the hallway."

"It's never that simple anyway," Dean countered. "At least this way we don't have to make up some cock-and-bull story every time we want to enter some stranger's property. I did us a favor. You should be kissing my ass."

"More like I should be kicking your ass," Sam mumbled.

"Whatever," Dean said, hitching his duffle further onto his shoulder and moving towards the door. But he stopped short once he past the mirror and caught a glimpse of his reflection.

Dean smacked Sam in the chest. "Dude! Why didn't you tell me I look like I just did three rounds with Mike Tyson!"

"It's not that bad," Sam said, referring to the marks that were left over from Dean's encounter with the ghost in the bathroom.

"Not that bad?" Dean exclaimed. He had a large spilt in his lip and the bottom of his chin had a blue tinge to it– the beginning of a bruise that would clearly end up traveling the length of his jaw line. "That thing fucking broke my face!"

Sam grabbed hold of Dean's arm, alarmed. "Shh!" he whispered angrily. "Don't swear!"

"Excuse me?" Dean shrugged his arm out of Sam's grasp, staring at him curiously. "Don't swear? I'm sorry, mother, didn't realize my potty mouth bothered you so much."

That's right, Sam thought, given all that had happened, he hadn't yet told Dean about his encounter with that man in the store. So Sam quickly filled Dean in. When he finished, Dean wasn't reacting like Sam had expected. He didn't looked shocked or perplexed like Sam had at the time. He was standing there, nodding his head slightly, looking as if Sam had just told him the weather.

"Yep, now everything makes sense," Dean finally said.

Sam was taken back. "It does?"

"Perfectly. I'm a bad influence with a capital James Dean, and so they hired a spiritual hitman to off me." He strode to the front door and yanked it open. "It makes perfect sense," he growled, marching towards the first house on their list. God, he was sick of this town.

* * *

The family sat in silence, waiting. Each one lost in their own thoughts - staring at nothing in particular. Their hands gripped their knees or clutched at armrests. The little girl couldn't stand it. The silence was so complete that she could hear everyone's breath. She shifted slightly, hoping the leather couch's crinkling would display her impatience. She was sitting between her mother and older brother, but could've been wedged between two cardboard cutouts for all the attention they gave her.

"Who are we waiting for, again?" Her voice cut through the thick silence, jarring her mother from wherever her mind had disappeared.

"Some people from the council. They're going to look into this town's rat problem," she answered distractedly.

"Apparently," her older brother sneered.

Her mother shot him a look, but said nothing.

He let a loud sigh escape his lips and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "This isn't right! They shouldn't be here. Why are we letting them search our house?"

"They're searching everyone's house," her other brother said quietly.

"It's still not right. They're dangerous. I can feel it."

They all suddenly looked up as a young man stumbled into the room.

Sam quickly straightened when he realised the whole family was staring at his clumsy entrance. The parents were smiling politely, while their two sons weren't even trying to hide their skeptical stares. Sam shot a glare at Dean as Dean walked in behind him after having just pushed Sam into the room.

"Why'd you have to shove me so hard?" Sam whispered.

"Why'd you have to walk so slow?"

Sam quickly wiped the glower from his face, replacing it with a professional smile as he turned to address the family. "Hi, we're - "

But Dean cut him off. "Sorry about my partner here." He slapped Sam in the shoulder, causing Sam to lurch a little. "He's a klutzy one. Anyway, we're here to inspect the place for rodents. Coz that's what we're here in this town to do – find rats. And kill them. Now would you mind skedaddling out of here so we can do our job and be on our way?"

Sam's smile froze as he fought the urge to kick Dean. They were in the fourth house in the list of five. The other three houses had turned up nothing unusual. Except, of course, an uncanny habit on behalf of the occupants to remain politely distant and avoid talking to Dean as much as humanely possible. And it was getting dark, because thanks to their run in with Mary's father, they'd been roped into checking out every house in between the five on their list – each occupant reacting towards Dean in the same distant fashion. He was obviously getting sick of the unusual attention and had decided to throw politeness out the window – he wanted to see what being rude would accomplish other than further stares. Sam thought it was a stupid move.

Neither Dean nor Sam were surprised, then, when Dean's unprofessional demeanour caused the family's eyes to widen and their faces to grow ashen in colour. One of the sons abruptly stood up. "We'll be in the outside bungalow if you need us." He grabbed his younger sister's hand and pulled her out of the room with him.

Sam almost choked when his eyes met the young girl's. It was the girl from his dreams! He was so distracted by this fact, that he failed to notice the significant look the young man shot his family, forcing them to reluctantly follow him out. Dean noticed though, his eyes following the boy out.

"We have our first suspect right there," he said to Sam once the family was out of earshot Dean looked over when Sam didn't answer. Sam was staring where the family had sat a second ago, mouth gaping slightly.

"Dude, what's up with you?" Dean asked.

Sam turned to Dean. "That was her! The little girl from my dream! We're in the right house, Dean. The ghosts come from here somewhere." He quickly took the EMF meter out of his bag and switched it on. They were finally getting somewhere.

"Really?" Dean said, looking around dubiously.

"Yeah. Why?"

Dean shrugged. "You'd at least think the place would have a few gnarled trees out front. Maybe a row of bookcases leading to a hidden lair. This place looks so…normal."

"Normal can be deceiving." Sam began scouring the living room, letting the EMF meter pass over every inch of the place. He was close to unravelling some of this mystery. He could feel it.

Dean opted for the old fashioned approach. He opened draws and began rummaging through the family's possessions, trying to find some tangible clues to what was going on in this house.

"I take it back - there is something evil brewing here!"

Sam quickly turned towards Dean. "What did you find?" D

ean held up something small and white. "Unicorn statues. They _must_ be stopped."

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed the statues from Dean's hand, placing them carefully back.

Dean just laughed and threw up his hands. "I'm sorry, Sammy, but this is ridiculous. We just happen to find the place where the damsel in distress from your dreams lives and you honestly expect it's the same place where my see-through attacker lives?"

Just then the lights flickered on and off a few times. Dean and Sam became instantly alert. Dean reached into his bag and removed a shotgun and pistol both filled with rock salt. He handed the former to Sam. "Eating my words," he muttered, gun held out in front of him as he stepped protectively in front of Sam.

"What are you doing?" Sam frowned. "_You're_ the one this town's after, remember?"

"Huh. That's right." Dean backed away from Sam. "Sorry, habit."

Sam frowned, momentarily distracted from the flickering lights. "What do you mean, 'habit'," he asked.

"Oh, you know. Usually _you're _the one they're after. I'm the one who comes in, guns blazing, to save the day." Dean grinned.

Sam spluttered. "That's not true."

Dean hid a smile, shrugging nonchalantly as he kept a watchful eye ahead of him. "Okay, whatever you say Snow White."

Before Sam could respond, the lights stopped flickering, going back to normal. Sam and Dean kept their guns raised, looking around wearily. When nothing popped out of any corner, Dean slowly lowered his gun, Sam following suit.

"Let's check out upstairs," Dean suggested. Sam nodded. They walked up the stairs in silence, painfully aware of how loud their footsteps echoed in the empty house. Suddenly all the lights switched off, bathing the stairwell in darkness.

"Shit," Sam heard Dean mutter. Sam grabbed onto the banister tightly, listening to Dean rummage through the bag. Finally a bright beam of light cut through the dark as Dean switched on the torch. He swung it towards Sam. Sam blinked as the light hit his eyes. Dean moved it away, reassured that Sam was still behind him. "Let's keep moving."

The torch's beam barely reached the upstairs floor. Was it that high up or just that dark up there?

They reached the top landing and Dean quickly swept it with his torch. Nothing. They proceeded cautiously nonetheless. Dean froze suddenly, causing Sam to bump into him lightly. Dean held up a hand.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered. Sam strained his ears. Yes, he did hear it! It was a scratching noise. But where was it coming from?

"Over here," Dean tugged Sam's jacket, motioning towards one of the doors in the corridor. Sam held up his gun and followed Dean with a stealth only those militarily trained knew how to pull off.

Dean stood on one side of the door, Sam on the other. Dean motioned with his hands. He counted to three, and then flung the door open, bounding inside. Sam was right behind him. But the room was empty. No ghosts or ghouls or running bathwater.

"It's the girl's room," Sam noted.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean said, lowering his gun once again. He was getting annoyed by all these false alarms.

The room was pink, with frilly pink covers and plastic tables covered in an assortment of dolls and toys.

"Hey, I remember these," Sam said, picking up one of the Strawberry Shortcake dolls. Dean gave him a look. Sam rolled his eyes. "From the girls at my pre-school."

"Sure, sure."

Sam hastily put it back down, noticing that Dean was edging towards the small, pink closet. The closer Dean got, the louder the scratching became. This wasn't a false alarm, there was definitely something in there. Dean grabbed onto the handle and, taking a deep breath, swung the door open. He shouted and stumbled back as a furry creature jumped out, skirting through his legs and out into the hallway.

Sam turned just in time to see a tail disappear into the darkness. He started laughing. "It's their cat."

Dean straightened the bag on his shoulder roughly. "Aren't you just full of insightful… insights today." He strode out of the room, ignoring Sam's amusement.

"Sam!" Dean yelled from out in the hallway. Sam hurried out, only to have to choke down more laughter. Dean was standing rigidly as the cat furled around his legs, rubbing against him.

"What's it doing?" Dean asked, trying to move out of its reach.

Sam smirked. "It's a cat, Dean. It's their way of showing affection."

"Well make it stop," Dean complained. This wasn't the time to become buddy buddy with a stupid house pet.

Sam shook his head. "Trust you to shy away from affection."

"Come here, Prixie," a foreign voice called out from the dark. Dean and Sam both whipped around. Standing at the opposite end of the hallway was the son who'd led his family out of the house. Dean's heart thumped against his chest – how'd he get there without either of them noticing?

Dean quickly sheaved his gun into his belt, having noticed that Sam was hiding his shotgun behind his back. The lack of lights had proved useful in this instance. He doubted the guy had seen the glint of metal since he himself could barely see two feet in front him without the torch.

"The electricity's gone out," the guy said.

"We noticed," Dean replied, a hint of sarcasm breaking through. Why was the guy just standing there? If he wanted to creep them out, it wasn't working. It was annoying Dean…okay, and maybe creeping him out. Just a little.

"I came up here to find some torches," the guy said after a pause, his gaze finding Dean's and holding it without waver. Dean just stared back, unsure of what to make of him. He shone his light in the guy's direction. His hands were empty.

"I couldn't find any," he explained.

"What's your name?" Dean asked suddenly.

The guy hesitated just long enough for Dean to catch it. "Jamie. Palmer. Jamie Palmer."

"Well, Jamie Palmer, we still have a bit of work to do, so…" Dean left the sentence unfinished. His meaning was clear.

Jamie didn't move. Sam looked back and forth between Jamie and Dean. They seemed to have forgotten he too was in the hallway. Their eyes were locked, absorbed in some silent battle.

"Don't you want to come back when the lights are back on?" Jamie asked in a deadpan voice.

"No. No, I think we'll finish up today. We aren't afraid of things that go bump in the night." When Jamie's eyebrows rose slightly, Dean quickly – if unconvincingly – corrected himself. "Rats, I mean. They go bump, we go splat."

Jamie smiled humourlessly. "You sure are dedicated for rat killers."

Dean smiled back with just as much veiled malice. "Well, once we have our eyes on something, we don't stop till the job's done."

Sam stepped up to Dean, taking his elbow. "Maybe we _should_ leave this till another day." Sam didn't like the way Jamie was staring at Dean – there was something glittering in his eyes that sent a chill down Sam's spine.

"What? No." Dean jerked his arm away from Sam. Why would Sam even suggest that? "We don't leave jobs half done. Not when we've come this far…."

Sam glared at Dean, trying to convey to him the strange feeling he was receiving without using any words. He could feel Jamie watching the exchange.

"Do you always talk to your brother like that?" Jamie asked.

"The way I talk to my brother is none of your business. Now, if you don't mind, we'll let you and your family know once we've finished."

Jamie shrugged slightly. "Okay," he said, finally moving. He walked past them, the cat following obediently. "Be careful," Jamie paused at the top of the stairs, turning to Dean, "rats sometimes bite back."

Dean and Sam watched Jamie walk down the stairs until he disappeared into the dark. They then exchanged significant looks.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed out loud. "That kid aint right."

"You shouldn't have baited him like that, Dean."

"He started it." Dean shone the torch down the hall and found the room Jamie had emerged from – the door was still open. He dashed into it and pulled back the dark curtains from a window overlooking the backyard. Sam walked up beside him. A few moments later, both exhaled in relief – Jamie was walking the length of the yard, disappearing back into the bungalow where his family were waiting out Sam and Dean's search.

Dean let the curtains fall back. "That EMF reading anything yet?"

"Not yet," Sam sighed.

But just as he answered, a light popped on from back downstairs. Sam frowned, reaching for the light switch in the room they were currently in, flipping it on. Nothing happened. He tried the light in the hallway – that too was still dead. The only light working was in the lounge room downstairs.

"I bet you five bucks our little Casper is downstairs," Dean said. "You in?"

Sam just rolled his eyes and started walking downstairs.

"What?" Dean called after him. "You aren't betting, then?"

"Surprise, surprise," Dean muttered once he reached the lit living room. "No sign of it."

"Just keep an eye out," Sam said, circling the room cautiously. The hair at the back of his neck was on end.

"As opposed to what, exactly?" Dean countered. "A foot?"

He began circling the room also. "Here ghostie, ghostie, ghostie," he sung out. Suddenly an icy wind hit him in the face and Sam's EMF meter started going off like crazy. "Shit!" Dean exclaimed. "That worked!"

Sam was suddenly hit with another premonition, one so strong that he cried out, falling back against the wall.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, rushing to his side. He dumped his gun and torch next to him and grabbed Sam's face. "Sam! Can you hear me?"

Images were flashing in front of Sam's eyes faster than he could make sense of. Blood and dirt floors and shots ringing out. Girls crying and Dean lying on his side and dark black eyes. Angry yells, Strawberry Shortcake dolls, and that image of Dean dirt-streaked and blood stained, a gun limp in his fingers.

"Sam!" Dean yelled again. The shout cut through the images and Sam's eyes flew open. "It's all going to happen here," he whispered in a moment of clarity, before he gasped at what he saw. Dean was holding his head tightly, but behind Dean had emerged a glowing entity with distorted, rage-filled, features.

"Look out!" Sam tried to warn his brother, but couldn't get the words out fast enough. The thing grabbed Dean from behind and threw him carelessly across the room. Dean landed on the glass coffee table; it shattered under his weight.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, scrambling to get up. But invisible ropes locked around Sam's wrists and legs, yanking him back against the wall, holding him there helplessly. "Dean!" he shouted again, fear clutching his heart as he realized that Dean wouldn't be able to get to his bag of weapons fast enough. Dean was grimacing as he tried to get up, obviously stunned from the fall.

The ghost flew towards Dean's struggling body, its arms stretched out at its sides, lights popping out as that thing drew the energy into its hands. Dean's eyes widened as he saw the ghost approach, electric energy crackling in its palms.

Sam pulled against the invisible ropes. Like some cruel joke, his and Dean's guns lay inches from Sam's feet, but he couldn't reach them. He struggled desperately, but in the end could only watch helplessly as that thing straddled his brother and grabbed the sides of Dean's head.

Dean screamed as the energy flew from that thing's fingers and coursed into him.

Dean's screams cut into Sam, shrivelling his insides. Whatever frustrations or annoyances he'd been harbouring against his brother flew out the window, replaced with a deafening fear and a determination he'd never felt before. "Leave him alone!" he shouted, renewing his struggle.

Dean's back arched and his muscles grew taunt. His jaw clenched against the pain, his arms reaching for the ghost uselessly. His head lolled back against the floor, his eyes roaming the room trying desperately to find something that would get this thing off him. But there was nothing, and the ghost's eyes were quickly appearing from beyond the shadowy blob that marred the rest of its features – they were the same dark, cold ones as earlier. And they were filled with just as much rage.

The thing squeezed Dean's head tighter. The bolts of energy ripped into Dean's consciousness, tearing through his body, rupturing blood vessels, punching into his blood stream and streaking through it. It felt like he was burning from the inside out! Dean writhed in pain, his body convulsing, his leg lashing out and smashing into the couch, causing it to crash across the room.

Sam didn't know what he hated more – the unnatural strength that being in such obvious pain had given Dean, the spasms that racked his taunt body, or the strangled cry getting caught in his throat. "Hold on, Dean!" Sam yelled, though he didn't know if Dean could even hear him anymore. Sam ignored the protests in his muscles and stretched his leg until the tip of his shoe touched Dean's gun. Channelling every bit of strength and concentration he had, Sam used his toe to edge the gun closer towards him. But in a terrifying moment, Sam felt his toe slip against the metal and the gun slide further away.

"No!" Sam shouted. Sweat erupting on his forehead, Sam let the invisible rope cut into him as he stretched further than he thought possible. He clenched his teeth, ignoring the likely possibility that we was going to be an inch taller after this. His foot grappled along the carpet in front of him, until it finally touched the gun. Forcing himself to ignore his panic, Sam slowly pulled the gun forward until it was close enough for Sam to try and kick it towards Dean.

_Please, please, please_ _reach him. _Sam carefully aimed and kicked it like it were a soccer ball and Dean the goal post. Sam held his breath as the gun slid across the carpet, landing just in reach of Dean's hand. Sam almost cried in relief.

"Pick up the gun, Dean!" Sam commanded, shouting to be heard above the energy zapping around the ghost and his brother. For a second all hope drained out of him as he realized Dean may not be able to defend himself anymore.

But Dean's fingers slithered towards the gun, and wrapped around it tightly. After a second's pause he lifted it and aimed it right at that thing's face, squeezing the trigger just as the ghost vanished. As the blast went off, wedging bits of rock salt into the wall, so to did the sizzling energy remove itself from Dean's body – slithering and sliding out like fingers quickly recoiling from a hot surface – leaving Dean feeling weak but alive.

As the ghost disappeared, so to did the ropes binding Sam to the wall. Sam fell to his knees, but quickly jumped up and scrambled to his brother. Dean was lying on the carpet, panting, his eyes rolling up into his head in an effort to remain conscious.

"Dean!" Sam gently hoisted his brother up from the floor. Blood was trickling from Dean's mouth, nose, eyes and even ears. But it'd already begun to dry. That was a good sign. "Can you say something?" Sam tilted Dean's head up so that he could see his eyes. They were bloodshot and unfocused. Sam also couldn't help notice the blue bruises in the shape of fingers that marred Dean's smooth skin. Sam loosened his grip to inspect the bruises and Dean's head began to fall backwards again.

"No, no," Sam cried, quickly moving to Dean's side so that he could wrap an arm around Dean's shoulders, lifting him upright again. "I've got you, don't worry."

Unsure of what to do, terrified that the ghost had caused serious damage, Sam looked around the room helplessly, trying to find something to prop his brother against so that he could call an ambulance if need be.

"Did you ever know that you're my hero," Dean coughed. Sam whipped back towards Dean, breaking into a smile at the words.

"Since when are you a Bette Midler fan?"

Dean struggled to lift himself further into a sitting position, wincing both at the distinct aftersensation of almost being cooked alive, and the realization that he needed Sam to help him if he had any hope of remaining up right. The world was kind of spinning at the moment.

"Since the day you became my fucking night in shining armour."

Sam's smile didn't reach his eyes. This was a new experience for him also – twice now Dean had almost met his death at the hand of this…angry entity. And twice now it hadn't even tried to touch Sam. What was that thing about third time lucky? Sam prayed he didn't have to find out.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Sam suggested, wrapping Dean's arm around his shoulder and using his other arm to grab Dean tightly around the waist, lifting him from the charred carpet. He really didn't like how limp Dean felt.

Both looked up though, when they heard the side door opening. Shit, of course the family would be drawn by all the noise they'd made. Dean quickly shrugged away from Sam, forcing himself to stand upright on his own.

The family entered the living room, mouths falling open in shock when they saw the holes in the wall, the shattered table, the upturned couch and Dean's bloodied face. Sam was having trouble registering their shock, any emotion being overpowered by the pang of worry that stabbed at his stomach when Dean discreetly leant against him, needing the support to remain standing.

"Dangerous suckers, those rats," Dean himself offered by way of explanation.

"What happened?" the mother asked, tentatively reaching to touch her pocketed wall but pulling back at the last second, unsure.

Dean's eyes slid towards Jamie. "The rats bit back."

"We'll pay for the damage," Sam quickly cut in, wanting to avoid any confrontations.

"The fuck we will!" Dean exclaimed, his hands clutching his sides.

The family's eyes grew even wider, taken aback by his swearing, while Jamie's eyes clouded in anger.

"Watch your tongue!" the father said.

"Fuck no!" Dean retorted, fed up with this whole day and by this whole death-will-become-me scenario. "I was almost been electrocuted – or something ocuted – in your goddam fucking house! I think I deserve to swear as much as I goddam like. I'm not paying for this wall until you pay for that…rat…trying to kill me!" Dean gathered the rest of his energy and limped towards the front door, muttering the whole way: "This whole stupid town owes me one big fat bastard of an apology. Did you hear that, psycho town! I'm swearing! What are you going to do about it?" He slammed the door behind him and trudged to his car, slumping into the backseat.

Sam looked at the family, covering his concern for Dean with an apologetic smile. "We'll be back to fix your rat problem later," he said. Sam then quickly gathered up their things, hastily straightened the upturned couch, and followed after his brother.

"I told him he should've waited until the electricity was turned back on," Sam heard Jamie tell his family. "Bet he's sorry now."

Sam froze.

_Bet he's sorry now_. The words rang in his head, twirling around and around like a twisted merry-go-round.

_Bet you're sorry now._

_

* * *

_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** First off, I feel a pressing need to apologize for the glaring typos that I discovered dotted throughout the last chap, and for a few flabby paragraphs towards the end. In my haste to post it, I didn't properly edit it – argh!  
Anyway, here is the next one. Tell me what you guys think! I had a bit of a writer's block going on, so please leave feedback letting me know your thoughts.  
And, most importantly, I want to again give a _huge_ shout-out to all you reviewers – you guys rock my world! ;)

**HAUNTED**

Chapter 4

"_Bet you're sorry now"… "Bet he's sorry now…"_

The words spun in Sam's head, circling around every other thought, faster and faster, until they were all he could see or hear. He turned back to the front door that had now closed on him. He took a step towards it. _Jamie_. He had something to do with that thing almost killing Dean. Almost killing his brother. He had to. The coincidence was too large, too taunting, to ignore.

Sam took another step back towards the door. He could barely feel his limbs anymore; his muscles were infused with an anger he had rarely felt before. Something, someone, behind that door wanted his brother dead. Wanted Dean dead…

That thought jolted Sam out of whatever rage-induced trance had enveloped him. The heat drained from his limbs and he found himself standing a few feet away from the closed door in a deathly quiet street. What was he still doing here! Was he nuts? He had to get Dean away from this place! Fast.

Sam swiftly jogged to the Impala and jumped into the driver's seat, instantly turning to check if Dean was okay.

Dean was lying across the backseat, his head resting against the window, his eyes shut tightly, a small frown creasing his brow.

"Dean?" Sam asked, trying his best keep the worry from his voice. "You comfortable back there?"

After a beat, Dean nodded slightly, mumbling something to the tune of: "My car's always comfy."

Satisfied, Sam turned back around. "Keys, keys," he muttered to himself, running his hands along the dashboard, searching for them. Something clanged against his head and bounced to the floor. Turning, he realized that Dean had retrieved the keys from his pocket and chucked them at him. Sam scooped them up, quickly turning on the car and getting them away from there.

Dean held back a grunt as the car swerved onto the road, jolting his sore body. Now he knew what it felt like to be boiled alive – he was never eating lobster again, ever. He felt Sam staring at him. He opened his eyes and sure enough, there was Sam peering back at him through the rear view mirror, eyes large with concern. Had he caught that suppressed grunt?

Dean sighed internally and, ignoring his body's screaming protests, pushed himself into a sitting position. He leaned forward in the space between the car seats, resting an arm on the side of each seat. He wanted Sam to see that he was okay.

"That ghost better pray there's a bitch heaven, coz, boy, am I sending its ass there."

That did the trick. Sam's worried frown dissolved into a small smile. "No one messes with Dean Winchester and gets away with it, right?"

"Damn tootin' fruitin'."

Sam snorted. "You do realize that he's technically already dead, being a ghost and all."

Dean waved off that logic. "Eh, killing things a second time is my specialty."

A few minutes later, Sam pulled into the parking lot as gently as he could so he wouldn't jolt Dean too much. He then hopped out of the car and quickly ran to open the back door for Dean . Dean just glared at him for a second before slowly sliding himself out, shaking his head.

Dean then quickly backed away from Sam, rightly anticipating Sam's attempt to help him into the motel room. "Get away, dude," he warned.

Biting back a retort – something along the lines of this was not the time for Dean to be so stubborn - Sam stepped back, gesturing to the path in front of him. "After you," he said dryly.

Dean walked slowly towards their room, keeping a weary eye on Sam. Once inside, he headed straight for the bathroom. "Showering," was all he said.

"Do you need anything?" Sam automatically asked.

"Stop mother henning me!" Dean growled, marching resolutely into the bathroom.

Sam chuckled softly. An annoyed Dean he could handle; it was the silent one in the backseat of the car that had worried him.

* * *

Once the door shut behind him, Dean instantly fell to the ground, his knees making a small thud as they connected with the tile - though it barely registered compared with what the rest of his body was feeling. Dean let himself slump against the closed door. Now that Sam wasn't watching his every move with those big, worried eyes of his, Dean let the pain and exhaustion wash back over him. Let it burrow itself deep inside him, emanating a sharp, painful glow that infused his every muscle. 

He slowly pulled up his knees and let his head drop onto them, closing his eyes against the harsh florescent light.

God, what had that thing done to him? It hurt to breathe, it hurt to think, it hurt to move. But it was more than that. It hurt to remember. That thing, it had said stuff. Shown him stuff. He didn't really understand it, didn't _want _to understand it, but he felt his memory pull him back there anyway, instinctively trying to work it out.

He clearly remembered the electric energy coursing though him, how it had felt like a heated knife slicing through his nerves. When that thing grabbed his head, there had been a blinding, searing pain – an eruption of blue and white that had temporarily blinded him. But from beyond that, whispers, snippets, had merged with the sound of the electricity, surrounding him, breaking into his consciousness.

_Hates you, hates me…wrecked my life, his life…need to be stopped…you're going to kill him…LEAVE MY TOWN! _And the images…some pulled from his own memory, some he'd never seen before: Blood splattering against a wall, over and over again; Sam pulling the trigger at the asylum; young men being burnt alive by that same ghost and that same energy; Sam being attacked by that shapeshifter in Dean's form; and a rage, a hurt, so deep and so strong that it felt like that was what was burning him alive.

Dean's eyes snapped open when a knock from behind him jolted him back into the present.

"Dean?" Sam called softly from behind the door.

Dean closed his eyes again, rubbing his forehead. He'd been in here for what, 10 minute now? Sam was bound to have noticed that the shower wasn't turned on yet. And though that fact was a stupid slip on Dean's part, he really didn't want to deal with Sam's worry right now.

"Wait your turn," Dean answered.

There was no reply for a second. _God, if he asks if I'm okay_…But in a testament to how well Sam knew his brother, Sam didn't push the issue.

"Um, you hungry? I was thinking we could just order take-out." He paused for a moment. "Any preferences?"

Dean smiled slightly, silently grateful.

"Anything but lobster," he replied.

"Uh…" Dean could practically hear the frown coming through Sam's words. "Sure, that's really no problem."

Dean waited until he heard Sam's footsteps retreat from the door, before he pushed himself up and trudged towards the shower. He shrugged out of his clothes and gingerly stepped into the tub, more relived than he'd admit that the taps hadn't decided to start gushing water on their own. He turned the faucet as far as it would go and let the water hit him in the face.

It instantly washed away the dried blood, sliding off in pink droplets. He'd forgotten it was even there, what a sight he must have been to that family.

Dean tried to increase the water's pressure, but the handles were turned as far as they could go. _Dammit_, he thought. He stepped further under the stream, but the power of the water wasn't enough to stop his mind from wandering back. He quickly grabbed the soap and scrubbed himself clean, staring at the stains on the ceiling, the cracks in the floor, that spider web in the corner. Anything to distract himself. But he couldn't stop that last snippet, that last image that had been entwined with the electricity, from re-entering his memory. He closed his eyes and gave into it.

This image had broken through the other images and angry whispers with startling strength. In it, Sam was standing over him with the gun aimed at his chest, only this time there were real bullets, and that ghost was standing beside Sam, watching. Only, maybe it was Sam on the floor with Dean holding the gun. And maybe Sam wasn't there at all. Maybe it was just him and some kid. But though the snippets had been just that – snippets – weaving in and out of his consciousness as the energy coursed through his weakened body, Dean had caught enough to know two things for certain. One, that ghost was definitely standing there. And two, a shot had definitely rang out – loud and deadly.

* * *

Sam looked up as Dean emerged from the bathroom, a trail of steam following him out. He looked a bit worse for wear – big bags sat under his eyes and a number of bruises dotted his face. He wouldn't be happy about that.

Sam had spread the food over the room's small table. "No lobster, just like you ordered," he joked.

"What'd you get?" Dean looked at the spread with interest.

"I didn't know if you'd feel like any meat today, given your whole lobster remark, so I decided to go vegetarian."

Dean hesitated, stopping halfway to the table. "Vegetarian? Like, vegetables and other green stuff?"

Sam scoffed. "Don't look so terrified. As in, hot chips, potato cakes, onion rings and chicken nuggets since no one really considers them meat."

"Atta boy," Dean said, plopping down at the table and grabbing a handful of chips. Mouth full, he nodded over to where Sam sat tapping his fingers on the table and watching the muted television set. "You eat already?"

"Yeah, while you were showering." Sam's head suddenly snapped towards Dean. "That's okay, right? I mean, you didn't want me to wait or anything, did you?"

"Dude!" Dean leant back in his chair and shot Sam a sceptical glare. "Don't you start copying this town's freaky obsession with manners or I may have to disown you. Or kill you."

Sam chuckled. "I just thought - "

"Well, there's your problem," Dean cut in, grinning as he scooped up some more food and shovelled it into his mouth. Man, he was hungry.

"Ass," Sam retorted lightly.

Dean widened his eyes playfully, but then decided just to shrug. What could he say. "The reason I ask," he said, returning to his original topic, "is that if you're done eating then you can get off your lazy butt and grab the laptop."

Sam swivelled in his chair to grab the laptop, but then frowned and turned back to Dean. "To research? Now? Really?"

Dean rolled his eyes. Sure he usually had an aversion to research this late at night when food and sleep called – a good hunter was a well-fed, well-rested one, after all – but he had a hunch that he needed to explore before it drove him mad. And he didn't want to just sit here waiting for another attack, either. "Just do it, smartass."

"Wow, you sure that ghost didn't scramble your brains?"

Dean didn't respond straight away. He managed to offer a slight smile before turning back to his food. "If he had, I'd be put off one of my favourite breakfast foods. Scrambled eggs just wouldn't do it for me anymore," he finally said. Lame, but it was all he could come up with at that moment – his mind again slipping back to those words and images.

Sam opened his mouth to apologize, realizing with a sinking feeling how insensitive that had been. But he didn't say anything, not knowing what to say. Instead, he hastily grabbed the laptop and turned it on.

"What did you want me to look up?" he asked Dean.

Dean blinked a few times, shaking his head slightly, as if dislodging some thought that was trying to ensnare his attention. "Um, get into the local police records."

Sam shot Dean a look but did as he was told. "Okay," he sighed. "I'm in."

"Check out what went down in lucky number four," Dean said, referring to the Palmer house.

Sam frowned at the certainty lacing Dean's voice. Did he know something? "Okay," Sam said, tapping a few keys. Dean watched as Sam used the mouse to scroll down and then leant closer to the screen, his eyes flickering back and forth as he read. "Huh," he finally said.

"What?" Dean asked, putting down an unfinished Spring roll and pushing the food away.

"There _has_ actually been some violence connected to that house. Sixteen years ago, um, a Bret Parker was killed by his brother… Murdered. Shot, in fact. He was 17." Sam looked up at Dean – how had they not discovered this earlier?

Dean nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. "The brother in jail?"

"Uh…no…it doesn't say what happened. There's no indication that action was taken."

"What was his name, the one who shot him?"

Sam looked back at the screen. "Brad. Brad Parker."

"Bret and Brad," Dean said with a shake of his head. "Were their parents _trying_ to breed serial killers? The B-Brothers got any living relatives?"

Sam frowned before searching through the town's records. "No," he said. "Their whole family died within a year of the murder. It doesn't say how." He paused and looked up at Dean, still frowning. "Why do you say 'serial killers'? Brad didn't kill anyone else and Bret didn't kill anyone at all."

Dean just gestured back to the laptop. "Look up violent deaths in the past 16 years," he said by way of answer.

Sam shook his head. "There hasn't been any – I've already looked up this town's recent history. The newspapers have almost no mention of murders. We're living in Leave it to Beaver land here." As an afterthought, Sam added: "You know, apart from the ghosts and strange noises and haunted houses."

"Just do it," Dean said.

Sam sighed and logged back into the police records. "Oh, wow," he said after a moment. "In the few years after the killing, there was a…huge…number of violent deaths. Hundreds died of…" Sam's eyes widened, "of electrocution and drowning and strangulation and gun wounds, the list goes on." Sam looked up at Dean who was looking surprisingly unmoved by this information. "Electrocution and drowning, Dean!"

"There you go, I may not have that psychic mumbo-jumbo thing, but my hunches work just as good."

"A hunch?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Yes, a hunch, college boy. It means - "

"I know what hunch means," Sam cut in.

"Well, good, we're on the same page of the dictionary then."

Sam just stared at Dean for a moment, waiting. "That's all you're going to tell me?" Sam said after Dean didn't offer any further explanation.

"That's all there is to tell," Dean smiled, a blank look carefully drawn on his face.

_Unbelievable. _After all the flack Dean gave him over keeping secrets.Sam sighed and returned to the reports. "The killings decreased as the years went by, now there are only one or two deaths a year, if any. Usually out-of-towners." Sam rubbed a hand through his hair, then nodded in realization. "Wow, the whole town knows about all these deaths – they know what's going on. And they're hiding it. That's why no news will report anything."

Dean rubbed his eyes with a sigh. He was getting more tired as this day wore on. "And they know how to avoid what's going on. That's why only out-of-towners, like yours truly, are getting targeted lately." Dean shook his head. "Small towns. The clichés exist for a reason."

"This town isn't that small," Sam said absently.

"Smaller than it was 16 years ago!"

Sam frowned at Dean's morbid humour. "What exactly _is _going on, Dean?"

Dean threw his hands in the air. Wasn't it obvious? "Revenge killing. Spirits are born out of violent deaths. This kid was shot point blank by his own brother. Doesn't get more violent than that. His spirit is out to wreak vengeance on anyone who reminds him of Brad dearest. He's our serial killer. _That's _what's going on."

Sam was nodding slowly, letting all this information sink in. "But why is it after you?"

Dean's mind involuntarily flashed back to that day at the asylum, and at Sam's words being flung at him: _I am sick of doing what you tell me to do…_

"Dean?" Sam prompted. Dean just looked back at him with that odd, disquieting smile again. The one that didn't reach his eyes. But he quickly wiped whatever it was distracting him from his mind and answered in a normal voice: "I bet you Brad was loud, swore a lot and hit on the town's 'innocent' waitresses."

"But there are a lot of people around just like that, Dean."

"Which is why there are so many deaths, Sam," Dean said, getting slightly annoyed by Sam's need to doubt what Dean was telling him. They'd found the answer, uncovered the mystery, it was time to go put a stop to it already. "It explains why people are so freaked out by my lack of manners – they've caught on. They may not realize it's an angry spirit doing the deeds, but they realize that bad behaviour no longer gets them put in a corner. It puts them in a grave. I'm impressed they even figured that out - for once we've stumbled across a town with half a brain."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again, not knowing what to say. It made sense…but then again, not really. He sighed noisily. How did Dean suddenly stumble across these insights? How had he known that this town held a history of deaths?

"But what about the Palmer family. And Jamie? Where does he come into all this?" Sam finally asked, deciding that it was best not to push Dean for an explanation, but to just try and work out how much he knew all of a sudden.

"Ah, so _now_ you're listening to my hunches," Dean said with a triumphant – Sam would call it smug - smile.

"Yeah…uh, and the fact that, while leaving their house, I heard him say that exact same thing that the ghost said to you in the bathroom yesterday."

"Oh," Dean said, looking a bit disappointed before Sam's words sunk in. "He did?"

"Well, more or less. He said: 'Bet he's sorry now'."

"Huh," Dean said, frowning.

"And how did he know we were brothers?" Sam asked, suddenly remembering how Jamie had addressed them.

Dean's frown deepened as he quickly traced back through their encounter with the family. Nope, not once had he or Sam given any hint that they were related. "Huh," he said again. S

am was looking more and more perplexed by Dean's distant reactions. "That's all you have to say? A grunt?"

"What do you want me to say, Sammy? Jamie's a suspicious character, I got it. Got there before you did, remember?"

"There's a connection between Jamie and the ghost that attacked you!"

"Okay, so there might be a connection. But it doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"What do you mean?" Sam sighed. How could Dean be so blasé about all this? His life was at stake! He almost died today!

"Whatever connection there is can't be severed by just talking about it, Sam! That's what I mean. We need to salt and burn Bret's bones and all this will be done with. No more vengeful spirit, no more Jamie problem." Dean pushed his chair away from the table and went to grab his bag, shoving in the stuff they'd need. Sam watched, his growing incredulity sparking his growing frustration.

"You're not even going to try to work out what Jamie's deal is?" Sam asked, glaring at Dean's back as he threw a jacket on. "You don't think it could be at all important?"

Dean zipped up his jacket and turned to look at Sam, deliberately picking up the bag as he spoke. "No, I don't. Burn the bones, kill the angry son-of-a-ghost, deaths stop. It couldn't be simpler, Sam. If you want, I'll drop by the Palmer's afterwards and give Jamie an Avril Lavigne CD - bad pseudo-punk should cure whatever the hell's crawled up his ass. Now, you coming?"

Sam felt a pulling need to say that no he wasn't coming. If Dean wanted to go trump off in the middle of the night without giving five minutes to explore the possibilities of something else going on here, and without bothering to tell Sam exactly why or how all these hunches had hit him, then no, Sam wasn't coming. But Sam's juvenile instinct was easily overpowered by his brotherly one – Dean looked like shit. There was no two-ways about it. His bags had deepened and yellow bruises lined his face, many of them starting to turn blue. Dean wasn't in any condition to go out into a graveyard by himself. Though Sam wouldn't dare tell him that.

"Fine," Sam relented, pulling on a jacket.

"He still has his senses," Dean muttered, striding out ahead of Sam.

* * *

They rode in silence, Dean at the wheel, Sam staring out the passenger window. It was late – the streets were dark, devoid of drunken teenagers or escaped, barking dogs. Sam hadn't really realized how unsettling such complete, artificial silence was. It felt like the whole world could hear their car driving over the gravel roads. 

"So, how are we going to know if burning the bones works?" Sam asked Dean, more to break the quiet than anything else.

Dean glanced at Sam before continuing to watch the road. He could just see the graveyard ahead, and thus felt an odd need to keep his attention focused in case Bret's spirit got wind of his plan to, well, destroy him.

"He'll stop attacking me and the community will be able to swear in peace," Dean answered.

"I sort of meant in the more immediate sense," Sam said, smirking a little.

Dean shrugged. "I'll go back to the Palmer's, bang on a few walls, throw around a few 'your mama' jokes. If he's still alive - well, not alive, but you know, kicking – he won't be able to resist my bad ass charm."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged again. "I'll bring my guns, don't worry."

"Are you sure _that's _wise?" Sam said, eyebrows lifting higher with every comment Dean made. "What if Jamie's around?"

Dean's gaze flickered towards Sam again. "So what if Jamie's around. You think he's the one I'll put a bullet through?"

"Do _you?_" Sam asked.No, that wasn't what Sam had meant, but it was obviously what was on Dean's mind.

"Despite what certain brothers think, whose names I'll refrain from mentioning, I know I'm not a killer," Dean answered, ignoring the images flashing through his head of him being shot… and of him doing the shooting.

Sam knocked his head against the headrest with a loud, irritated sigh. "God! You're so frustrating!" he blurted out, kicking out his legs restlessly.

Dean shot him a glance. "Whoa, there, Giraffe boy," he said. "Don't take your frustrations out on my car, dude. It's not her fault you haven't been laid lately." He kept the smile from his lips as Sam turned to look at him with wide eyes, spluttering something incoherent – some sound that Dean guessed what a cross been angry, annoyed, and amused – before throwing up his arms and turning his back on Dean, determined to spend the rest of the ride staring out the window and keep from swatting Dean upside the head.

Dean smirked, his mood instantly lifting.

* * *

Dean dumped his bag full of weapons and tools onto the dirt ground with a clang. "Well, this is it," he said needlessly. After a few minutes of searching, he and Sam had found the Parker plot and were now standing in front of Bret's gravestone. 

Sam squatted in front of it to read the inscription. "Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift." Sam read it again. "That's odd," he mumbled to himself, before standing back up to find a shovel being held out in front of him by Dean's outstretched arm. Sam frowned at how close the shovel was to his face, but took it from Dean anyway.

"Start digging," Dean stop, hopping onto a nearby grave.

"What?" Sam spluttered – he seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "Why aren't you helping?"

"One shovel. One digger," Dean said innocently.

Sam laughed humourlessly. "Oh, how convenient, you only brought one shovel."

Dean shrugged, hopping off the stone and walking back to where Sam stood. "Okay, give me the shovel, I'll do it," he said, reaching out his hand. "Pass it over."

Sam was suspicious now. "Why?"

"You're obviously tired, being attacked by a wall and all. Sure, I almost _died_ today, but hey…what sort of brother would I be if I used that against you?"

Sam just stared at Dean, blinking a few times as a strange battle between annoyance and guilt waged within him. He sighed. "I'll do it," he grumbled, gripping the shovel more firmly and positioning himself at the side of the grave. Today sucks, he decided.

"No, really, Sammy, I got it," Dean persisted, amusement glittering in his eyes.

"I'm doing it!" Sam growled, forcing the shovel into the ground and removing a large clump of grass and dirt.

Dean chuckled silently. "Gosh, what a great brother I have."

Sam snorted a half-laugh, despite himself.

Dean sat back on his make-shift chair, watching as Sam shovelled clump after clump of dirt away from the grave. Dean kept one foot ensnared on his duffle bag's straps, comforted by the fact that his weapons were close by. Just in case.

Getting a bit bored sometime later, Dean slid off the headstone and absently read the inscription. His eyes widened. "Hey!" he called to Sam, who poked his head out from the pit he'd created. "What?" Sam asked, out of breath and using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"I found out what happened to the psycho brother. He's dead. Been sitting on his grave, small world, huh? Listen to this: Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother – ha! - in death he shall find the peace he missed in life."

"When did he die?" Sam asked, still panting a little.

"Uh…"Dean traced the engraving. "Feb 20th, 1990."

Sam took another look at Bret's grave. "A week after he killed his brother. I wonder what happened."

Dean shrugged, not all too interested. After taking a moment to dwell on this information, Sam resumed his digging, his shovel finally clanging against hard wood.

"Finally!" Dean said, opening his bag and grabbing the salt and matches. He strode up to Sam and took the shovel from him. "Let's torch this sucker."

Sam shot him a small, disapproving look, but didn't say anything. He understood how much Dean wanted this nightmare to be over. Hell, so did Sam! He just felt a bit strange, desecrating the grave of someone who was a victim in life. _But in death he became a killer_, Sam reminded himself.

"Okay, move out of the way," Dean said to Sam, who obediently jumped out of the hole he'd made. Both brothers took a moment to look around the silent graveyard, their chests tight in anticipation – almost expecting Bret's spirit to come barrelling through the abandoned night, its light weaving through the gravestones and descending upon them.

But it didn't happen. So Dean grabbed the shovel tightly and slammed it down on the coffin, prying it open. He turned his head slightly at the sight of the rotted body. Keeping an arm in front of his face, covering his nose as best he could, Dean shook the salt over the body. Then Dean struggled out of the ditch and lit a match, throwing it down into the open grave. The fire caught instantly and bathed the corpse with an orange glow, crackling and licking the air above it, but quickly dissipated, leaving a charred, wrangled skeleton behind.

Dean let himself flop onto the grass beside Sam, staring at the corpse, then staring at the graves surrounding them, and finally at the empty night. Sam was looking around also, uncertainty etched into his sweaty features. They waited there for a while, not saying much, until finally the morning sun began to peek over the horizon.

"Huh," Sam said, mimicking Dean's earlier expression.

"Yeah," Dean voiced. "That was anti-climatic."

* * *

Jamie stared out the window, watching the gravestones that dotted the edge of his town. 

"They're burning bones," he spoke out loud.

His mother looked up from where she sat, alarmed. "Whose bones?"

A pained expression crossed Jamie's face. "Bret's," he said quietly.

The mother breathed deeply, her hand fluttering against her chest. "Okay, that's okay then. Do…do you think they'll -"

Jamie cut her off, knowing what she was about to ask. "No. They won't. He's too stupid to figure it out."

"Are you certain about that?" she asked sharply.

He turned to her, surprised by her tone. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him."

"Of who?" a young voice said from the doorway. Jamie whipped around and saw his little sister standing there. _Dammit_, he hadn't realized she was listening.

"A bad person," he answered gently.

She walked up to him and clutched his hand tightly. "What's happening? Tell me! I'm…I'm scared."

Jamie looked to his mother, suddenly tired. She just shrugged sadly and nodded her approval.

Jamie took a deep breath and knelt in front of his sister, his hand still clutching hers protectively. "There's something I have to tell you…"

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: IMPORTANT: **Hey guys, I'm going to be changing this story's rating from T to M, given that some really awesome stories have been pulled from this site due to the ratings not being high enough. I'm worried that Dean's occasional potty mouth is warranting a higher rating. SO, please _remember_ when searching through SN fic to change the ratings to "All" (it automatically displays only K-T) if you want to see my updates. I got a heart attack when I forgot to do that and couldn't find it :P

And again, thank you sooo much to you reviewers! Your feedback is invaluable and very reassuring!

**Chapter Five**

"Sam!" Dean shouts, his arms reaching out, eyes glistening with fear. Sam can't reach him in time – he can only watch as Dean's pulled from the room and thrown down the stairs with a sickening thud, landing splayed and unmoving on the dirt floor beneath.

_It's not over_…a voice whispers in Sam's ear.

Sam eyes snapped open. _Dean. _He quickly turned in his bed, causing the sheets to tangle around his body like ropes. There was Dean lying on his motel bed, sheets pulled up to his neck, one hand lightly clutching the comforter while the other was lost beneath the pile of blankets. His eyelids fluttered slightly and his chest rhythmically rose and fell. But apart from that, Dean was still and silent. Dead to the world.

Dean must have been exhausted to fall into such an uninterrupted slumber. Sam's nightmares usually woke him up, but this time they hadn't even caused a flinch. Good – Dean needed the rest. They'd been up all night scouting a graveyard when only hours before Dean had almost fried. That would drain anyone's energy – even Mr. Invincible over there.

Sam pulled himself into a sitting position, yanking the tangled sheets away from his body. The sun was bright – streaming through the closed shades from any crack it could find. Sam frowned at the intrusion. His breath was still rattling in his lungs from his dream – it shouldn't be so sunny and bright when Sam's mind was so clouded with worry and confusion.

He ran a hand through his hair and breathed out slowly from his nose. Was that dream about Dean a premonition, or just a nightmare? Was Dean right – had burning Bret's bones really stopped the spirit from terrorizing this town and his brother, and Sam was just being overly cautious? Or, as Dean had called it, overly paranoid?

"No," Sam whispered to himself. He'd ignored his dreams before and let tragedy sneak in– he wouldn't let that happen again.

As quietly as he could, Sam got out of bed and dressed. "Something's not right."

* * *

_Tap, tap, tap, tap. _What was that? _Tap, tap, tap, tap_. The noise was inside his head, tapping against his skull, reverberating into his eyes and forcing them open. 

"Dude!" Dean yelled, having groggily turned his head only to find that the intruding noise had come from Sam piling tools and weapons into his bag. Dean lifted himself up, an annoyed expression deepening the pillow creases marring one side of his face. Sam looked up, surprised to see Dean awake already.

"What are you doing? It's only - " Dean looked at the blinking digits beside him, "well, okay, one in the afternoon, but I only hit the sack a couple of hours ago, so that's still early!"

Sam ignored Dean's complaints and continued to pack. "I'm going into town," he said, not looking at Dean.

Dean sat up further, a weary suspicion building in his stomach. "What part of town?"

Sam paused for a second, before shrugging and turning his back on Dean to grab his jacket.

"Sam," Dean said firmly. "What part of town?"

Sam sighed and finally looked up at Dean. "The graveyard."

Dean stared at Sam for a moment in disbelief. "To do what, exactly?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted, running his hands restlessly through his hair. He was growing angry – he didn't want to explain himself to Dean, didn't know how to explain himself to Dean. At least, not in a way that Dean wouldn't automatically scoff. Dean liked hard facts – a monster he could fight or a string of deaths he could follow. He didn't like acting off abstract feelings. And that's all that Sam could offer him right now. A gut feeling.

Dean was looking at Sam with raised eyebrows. "You know, if you want a place to sit and think, write a little poetry, there's a park down the road. They even have a swing set."

"It's not over, Dean," Sam blurted out, not in the mood for Dean's games.

Dean's eyes hardened as he threw off his blankets and moved to the edge of the bed. "What makes you say that? I burnt the bones – a whole fricken corpse worth of bones. I didn't miss anything - if there were a bone-burning professional, I'd be it. So, tell me Sam, why isn't it over?"

Sam hesitated. "I just…It just doesn't _feel_ over."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "God, Sam. Dr. Phil would love you, you know. You and your feelings."

Sam felt a pinch in his chest. Why couldn't Dean just trust him? "But, Dean - "

"But nothing, Sam." Dean strode up to him and grabbed the bag from his hands. Sam let him take it, breathing deeply from his nose to stop himself from seizing it back and just walking out of there.

"Man, what are you doing?" Dean said, chucking the bag at the foot of his bed. "You wake me up from a very sweet dream where Angelina Jolie and I are doing some very sweet things to tell me you're still hung up on this Parker family. Remember the bones and the burning? That was us closing this case."

Sam pressed his lips together, looking at Dean and wondering if he understood that lives could still be in danger. That _his_ life could still be in danger.

"My instincts have been right in the past, you know they have," Sam said. "And we've missed things in the past, you know that too, so why are you fighting me on this?"

Dean caught the hurt flicker through Sam's eyes and instantly felt bad. But he refused to acknowledge it. Though he did soften his voice. A little. "Look," he said. "I do trust your Haley Joel instinct, okay?" Sam opened his mouth to protest the name, but Dean held up his hand to quiet him. "_But_, it was your idea to wait 24 hours to see what would happen. I wanted to go back to the Parker's old place, remember?"

Sam nodded. Dean was right. He had told Dean not be stupid and give it time, rest up, before he went chasing after more danger.

Dean watched Sam carefully. "So we're going to wait 24 hours. If nothing happens, we'll go back to the Parker's old place with an EMF and make sure the spirit's gone."

"And if something happens?" Sam asked quietly.

"Well.. then I'll owe you a coke. But until then, we stay put." Dean really hoped Sam wouldn't argue with him about this. What he wasn't admitting was how badly he needed these hours to rest and get his energy back. He'd never felt an exhaustion quite like this before – it seemed to be emanating from the core of his bones. And if Sam was right, if this wasn't over, then he needed to get his strength back. Needed to be fully alert. To protect himself. To protect Sam. He'd take an angry Sam over an injured one any day.

Dean could see Sam struggling with himself – his jaw working back and forth and his eyes darting around the room restlessly. "Fine," Sam muttered, kicking off his shoes with more force than was necessary and getting back into bed, fully clothed, yanking the sheets over him. He turned his back on Dean.

Dean watched Sam for as long as he could – before his eyelids grew too heavy for him to hold open and the world became a slit of light, and then the dark of sleep enveloped him whole.

* * *

After a few hours of raging with himself for letting Dean tell him what to do so easily, Sam finally felt the calm of sleep settle over him. _I'm sorry…_

Sam's eyes shot open. He sat up straight, his heart beating so hard that he could hear it in his ears. That wasn't a dream…

_It's not his fault…_

Sam's head spun to the side, his hand slapping at his ear as the flesh tingled from the whispered remark. From how close it had been. He looked around the room carefully. Where are you?

Sam jumped slightly as Dean turned in his sleep, rustling the sheets. Okay, calm down. He listened hard, slowing his breath. At first there was only the distant sounds of cars, but then he heard it again. Whispered words, floating around the room, caught by the air and carried towards him.

The bathroom! That's where they were coming from. Sam slid out of bed and crept towards the room. He nudged the door open, careful not to actually step foot in it– all too aware of what had happened to Dean in there only days before.

_My gift is my burden, Sam.._

Sam caught a flicker in the cabinet mirror – a face! He quickly turned, but found only the quiet motel room staring back. He turned back towards the mirror, but this time found himself face to face with another gray entity.

Sam gasped, stumbling backwards, but catching the wall to stop himself from falling and waking Dean.

_It's not over_, it whispered before disappearing.

Sam's stunned reaction was quickly being overpowered by the sinking realization that his instincts were right. As quietly, and as quickly, as he could, Sam crept up to the foot of Dean's bed and grabbed the duffle bag that Dean had chucked there.

"Sorry, Dean," he said in a barely-audible whisper. "But I can't stay put."

Sam scooped up his shoes, deciding to put them on outside since socked feet were quieter than shoed ones, and opened the front door slowly, wincing at every creak. But Dean didn't wake up, barely even stirred. Which was unusual for him – a trained hunter who practically slept with one eye open - and which further padded Sam's resolve. This town had almost killed Dean and Sam was damned if he was going to let it get third time lucky.

Realizing that leaving Dean alone when he was so off his game wasn't the best strategy either, Sam carefully placed his bag and shoes outside before hurrying back in and creating a ring of salt around Dean's bed. It wouldn't ward a ghost off forever – but it'd slow it down enough for Dean to avoid getting caught off guard.

Sam then hurried to catch the bus into town. Dean would be mad enough without Sam dragging his Impala into the mix.

* * *

As soon as Sam closed the door, the air in the motel room grew colder and Dean frowned in his sleep, burying himself deeper into his blankets. He was too shut off from the world to notice the edge of his sheets fluttering.

* * *

Sam hopped off the bus at the town terminal and quickly checked out the bus map to see which route would get him closest to the graveyard. 

"Haven't you boys left yet?" a voice asked from behind him.

Sam turned to find that same man from the store sitting on one of the bus benches. "Uh, no, not yet," Sam replied, unsure of what else to say.

The man just shook his head and picked back up his newspaper. Sam frowned – this guy wasn't all that threatening, maybe he could get some information out of him. Sam walked up to the man and sat at the end of his bench. The man just gave him a sidelong look before rustling his paper and returning his attention to it.

"Um, actually, we'd probably be gone quicker if someone could just help us. This town hasn't been that friendly," Sam said, unable to restrain the dry hint from escaping his voice.

"I'm not surprised," the man gruffed, eyes still focused on the paper. "You're brother is -"

"Yeah, I know, my brother isn't welcome here – swears, loud, evil, I got it," Sam cut in, not wanting to hear more about Dean's corrupt behaviour, but he quickly continued, seeing the man begin to rile up. "But the thing is, um, we just discovered that some old friends of the family's used to live here. And they died. And we don't really know much about what happened, so we, uh, promised our…doting… parents that we'd find out more. Maybe you can tell me something."

Sam looked at the man carefully as he said this next bit: "Their name was Parker."

The man visibly froze. He looked up at Sam with an expression Sam couldn't read. "Figures you'd know them," he finally said.

"What do you mean?"

When the man didn't say anything, Sam continued. "We heard Brad shot, uh, sweet young Bret."

The man snorted.

Sam frowned. "That's…not what happened?"

"Oh, it's what happened all right. But Bret was anything but sweet. Looked up to his brother like he were a god. Kept trying to live up to his brother's wild reputation, landed them both in fights and jail - though Bret did never stop trying to be like Brad; he'd forgive him spitting on Jesus, he would've. But sweet? Maybe when he was still in diapers. And he sure swore like something all mighty."

"What…are you sure?" Sam was really confused now.

"Never as bad as his brother, mind you. Brad…" the man looked away for a moment. "Brad, he had something dangerous about him. Like…" he trailed off.

"Like," Sam prompted gently.

The man looked at Sam, like he was wondering if he should continue. But Sam knew that he had an open face when he really wanted it there, and this man obviously decided Sam was harmless enough.

"Like he knew he was no good. And was angry about it. He kept making problems for this town and for his family. But we did never expect for him to do what he did. We thought he really loved them." The man snorted again, "apparently he loved his cat more."

Sam's heart was again beating against his chest as this information sunk in. It didn't make sense…Bret was a delinquent too?

"Kid, you having a stroke or something?"

Sam looked up, blinking rapidly. "Sorry, I'm just…letting it all sink in." The man gave him another funny look. Sam quickly recalled his cover story. "You know, since I knew them and all…we used to play in sand pits together…" Sam trailed off, remembering how bad he was at lying.

But the man seemed to buy it. His eyes softened. "Look, Brad…he wasn't all bad. He knew what he'd done and he couldn't stand that he'd done it. It's why he shot himself in the end."

Sam's head snapped up. "What? Suicide?"

"Yeah…" the man replied, his concern giving way to suspicion. "Didn't you know that?"

Sam ignored the question, asking one of his own instead. "What about the Palmers. Were they close with those boys?"

"Who?" the man frowned, growing more weary of Sam by the minute.

Sam was surprised this guy didn't know them. "The Palmers. The family living in the Parkers' old house?"

"Oh," the man replied, but Sam could tell he had no idea what Sam was talking about. Sam frowned at this, but couldn't ask anything else because his bus had arrived.

"Kid," the man called out, grabbing onto Sam's sleeve as he got up. Sam turned to look back at him, surprised by the contact.

"Yeah?"

"You got what you came for, now leave this town. You're still not welcome here." He said it harshly but there was a plea in his eyes. Slightly unsettled, Sam nodded – if only to appease the old man, and hopped onto his bus.

As the bus roared towards the cemetery, Sam lent his head against the stained window and let the vibrations shiver into his body. He replayed the conversation over in his head.

Bret behaved just as his brother did. Bret would have forgiven his brother anything. Brad was violent. Brad loved his family. Brad shot his brother. Wracked by guilt, Brad shot himself. A violent death.

_Oh my god…We burned the wrong bones._

_

* * *

_  
The ghost circled Dean, its black eyes piercing Dean's closed ones, the hatred rippling off it in waves. It stretched out its arm and moved towards Dean's sleeping form only to be repelled back by the circle of salt. It hissed silently, but cocked its head suddenly, listening to something in the distance. A smile appeared from its shadowy folds and it disappeared.

Sam swung the torch along the damp ground, stopping as it landed on Brad Parker's headstone, illuminating the engravings.

"Time to torch this sucker," he muttered in a poor imitation of Dean. He shrugged his bag off his shoulder and yanked his sleeves further down his arms. It was getting cold. Really cold.

Sam's eyes suddenly widened in realization. _Oh no_. He lunged for his weapons but the bag was thrown away by an invisible force. And then from the dark came a sickly light, growing bigger and brighter as it rushed through – yes, through – the headstones, towards Sam.

Sam gulped, spinning around – getting ready to dive for his bag – but the ghost was too fast – it abruptly appeared in front of him. Sam gasped and turned to run the other way, but the ghost cut him off again, floating so close that Sam could feel the cold rippling from its shadowy, distorted body.

Sam jumped as his legs bumped something – he hadn't even realized he'd been moving backwards. It was Brad's gravestone. His spirit must be protecting it! Keeping a weary eye on the ghost, chest constricted with fear, Sam willed himself to calmly step away from the headstone. The ghost didn't follow – just stood there, its edges wavering with the wind, its black eyes focused on Sam.

Sam swallowed. Okay, good ghost, stay there, he thought. He then backed up, slowly reaching for his bag. But the ghost hissed loudly and with a clap like thunder released four bolts of crackling energy that wrapped around that small area faster than Sam could react to – blocking Sam from his bag and trapping him inside. The sparking energy grazed Sam's skin – so cold that it burnt - forcing Sam to stagger closer to the ghost, who continued to stare at him, a boy's figure beginning to appear and replace the ghost's formless mist.

With shaky hands, Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone, not taking his eyes off that thing for a second.

* * *

A buzzing noise broke into Dean's dreams, batting at his mind until Dean was forced to escape it by stepping out of his slumber. Willing his eyes open, Dean realized that the noise was his phone. 

Sighing, he forced himself up and grabbed it off the night table, rubbing his eyes as he checked the caller ID.

Sam? That's when all traces of sleep ran from Dean's mind as he realized Sammy wasn't in the room with him.

"Sam?" he asked, anger lacing his voice.

"Dean," Sam's voice came through the crackling line. It was shaking and low and he could hear Sam's shallow breaths. All anger instantly left Dean's body, replaced by a numbing fear. Sam was scared.

"Sam, what is it, where are you?" Dean had to strain to hear above the static connection.

"In the graveyard," his brother gulped.

"What!" Dean yelled, realizing with a shock that Sam had snuck off there after promising not to. "You're where?"

"Uh…bigger things to worry about. That thing that attacked you…well, it's standing right in front of me."

"What!" Dean yelled again, the colour instantly draining from his face.

"Yeah, uh, we thinged the wrong things," Sam said, lowering his voice further. But Dean could still hear the fear spiked through it, and it was making his hair stand on end.

Sammy was in trouble.

"What?" Dean asked again. He couldn't seem to get any other word out – his throat was closing up too fast.

"I don't know if it can understand us or not, but it was the other one all along. And I think it's protecting it's grave."

Realization dawned. "Brad," Dean said, eyes wide. He heard Sam gasp and then the sound of a body hitting the floor. "Sam?" Dean yelled as he practically fell from the bed, rushing to get his stuff. "Sam?" he shouted louder. Dean's foot slid on something grainy. He looked down to see the salt surrounding his bed. Closing his eyes painfully, fighting back the tears and panic, Dean let anger wash over him instead.

"You want me!" he yelled into the empty motel room, angrily scattering the salt. "Come and get me! I'm right here!" He waited for a second, wanting nothing more than to see those dead black eyes appear. But nothing happened. "Sam!" he yelled into the phone again. Getting no answer, Dean swore under his breath and ran to his car. He jumped in and reversed it out of the parking lot, tires squealing loudly.

* * *

The thing gurgled and Sam glanced back up, berating himself for looking away in the first place. What he saw made him gasp in horror. "Sam?" Dean yelled from the other end of the phone, but Sam couldn't answer him – he was staring at what the spirit had transformed into, transfixed, unable to form any words. 

The ghost's billowy façade had melted into the form of a boy – maybe 19, but it was hard to tell given that half his face was blown off! What remained was a matted mess of bloodied flesh – a tangle of hair and bone and skin. A gun hung from his hand and his jaw was slack. Sam felt nausea rile up in his stomach as he noticed the bits of flesh hanging from the side of the gun wound – from the gaping hole on the side of this kid's head. Blood ran down his temple, onto what remained of his cheek, and dripped from his chin, each drop turning blue and sizzling out of existence once it hit the ground.

Then, quicker that the eye could see, he was in front of Sam, using the hand not holding the gun to shove Sam to the ground. Sam grunted as he ungracefully landed on his ass, but in the next second he had to stop himself from screaming as that thing straddled him – his face close enough for Sam to see every gory, horrid detail of the self-inflicted shot.

The spirit lifted up his hand and grabbed Sam by the face.

Sam cringed, waiting for the explosion of pain. But it didn't come. Instead, memories – his own! – started pouring out, flashing in front of his eyes faster than Sam could register.

* * *

Dean tugged at the wheel violently, swerving around traffic, ignoring the indignant beeps as he raced through red lights and zoomed past stop signs. "Move it," he muttered to every car he past. 

Dean grappled the seat next to him, taking his eyes off the road for a second to grab his phone. It had slid to the edge of the seat and was about to topple to the floor when Dean swiped it up. He quickly redialed.

"Come on…" Dean muttered, fear gnawing at his stomach, threatening to break through. But Dean willed it down, absently counting the rings.

"Dean," Sam finally answered, his voice shuddering, but strong. Dean closed his eyes briefly, relief crashing through him.

"What happened?" he asked. He hated not knowing what was going on.

"Uh," Sam said, obviously shaken, "it came at me and I fell. It grabbed me."

Dean's grip on the phone tightened. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Sam said.

"Thank god," Dean mumbled. "What's happening now?"

"It's just…staring at me. I think it's making sure I don't dig up its bones. But it won't let me leave either."

"Those freakin' Caspers never know what they want. Do you think you can hold it off for five more minutes?"

"Yeah. I don't think it's going to hurt me. Why? What are you going to do?"

Dean didn't answer for a second, he checked his side view mirror and turned into Archer's Way. "Listen to me closely, Sammy. The instant that thing disappears I need you to dig up it's bones and burn the bitch as fast as you can. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah, but," Sam stopped mid-sentence, and Dean knew that Sam got it.

"You're going back to the house," Sam realized, disbelief mingling with the fear already present in his tone. "Dean," Sam said slowly, carefully, like he was talking to a wild animal that was about to pounce. "I _really_ don't think you should do that."

But it was too late to turn back. Dean had reached his destination. And he was fueled by a determination – by an anger – he only felt when Sam's life was at risk. That thing had attacked Sam, and now that thing had Sam trapped. He'd do anything to protect his brother. Anything.

Dean pulled up to the curb outside the Parkers' old house, skidding to a stop. "The instant that thing leaves," Dean repeated. "Burn the bones."

He hung up the phone, cutting Sam's plea off mid-sentence. Dean grabbed his bag, pulled out a shotgun, checked its cartridge, and strode to the front door. Not stopping to think, not stopping to doubt, he let himself fill with adrenaline, his fingers practically buzzing in his desire to kick some transparent butt. He beat his fist against the door loudly, over and over until it finally swung open.

* * *

**A/N: **Again, please remember to change your fanfiction page displays from K-T to "All" in the ratings box to be able to see my updates. And sorry for leaving it at another cliffie! The chapter was getting too long (that's always been a problem of mine) But I have a good chunk of the chapter six already written so it shouldn't be too long before the next update. Thanks for reading (and reviewing?)! 


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Next chapter! Thanks again (so much!) to my wonderful reviewers! 

And, also, does anyone know if I can edit my chapters without replacing the story or having it screw up, or something? I'm scared to press the edit button without prior knowledge.

**Chapter 6**

The door swung open and Jamie's mother stood there, gaping at Dean.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, young man, beating against my door like that. Are you a cave man?" she said angrily.

Dean pushed past her, striding into the house – a dangerous expression darkening his face as he scanned the room, silently willing the spirit to leave his brother alone and come get him instead. He's the one that thing wanted.

"Excuse me!" she said loudly.

Dean turned to look at her, plastering a smile onto his face. "I'm here to finish off those rats, ma'am. They've chomped on their last cheese slice."

He stalked to the wall and started banging on it with the hand holding the gun. Jamie's mother gave a startled gasp when she saw it.

"You're going to _shoot _them!"

"Don't worry, I wont wreck your decor," Dean answered absently, walking around the room, eyes peeled, "This here is reserved for one especially big rat."

Eyes widening further, Jamie's mother hitched up her skirt and strode past Dean. "I'm going to get my boys!" she yelled at him angrily.

"You do that, lady," Dean muttered at her retreating back.

"Come on…" he whispered into the silent room once she'd left. He'd been rude enough, why wasn't it showing? He banged the wall again. "Brad, honey, I'm home!" he called out. Hell, if Dean knew anything, he knew how to taunt things into getting mad. And that's exactly what he intended to do. He needed to lure Brad's spirit away from Sam.

The open front door suddenly slammed shut, followed by what sounded like every window shutter in the house.

"Bingo," Dean whispered, a smile sliding onto his face. He lifted his gun and aimed it in front of him, circling the room slowly as the lights began flickering and a cold breeze ruffled his short hair.

Keeping one hand firmly on the gun, he reached into his bag, quickly pulling out the video cam. He aimed it and switched on the night vision – it showed a glowing mass directly in front of him.

Before he could react, something collided into him with such force that he was thrown backwards, slamming into the opposite wall. Dean fell to his knees, winded, but had enough sense to lift his gun and pull the trigger, scattering the spirit before it could grab him again.

Springing to his feet, Dean rushed to his bag while he still had the chance – while Brad was temporarily stung - and grabbed a few spare cartridges of rock salt. He tucked them into his belt just as he felt those all-too-familiar icy fingers grip his neck. Dean froze at the touch, gulping as he felt himself lifted from the ground and thrown carelessly across the room. Dean instinctively lifted out his arms as he plowed into the family's stereo system - a sharp pain spiking through his wrist as he landed in a heap.

"Hope that wasn't expensive," he grunted as he struggled to withdraw himself from the rubble.

Ignoring the pain in his wrist, Dean swung the gun forward and shot at Brad's spirit, again scattering it. But it gathered itself instantly and propelled towards Dean, yanking the gun from Dean's hands – his grip weakened by his sprained wrist. "Ah crap," Dean muttered, watching as his gun slid out of reach, just before he felt Brad grab his hurt wrist and use it to haul Dean across the room.

Dean cried out as he landed back against the wall, the pain in his wrist shooting up his arm and sparking his adrenaline.

The ghost flew at him faster that Dean thought possible, but acting on instinct Dean tucked into a roll and ducked just in time, sliding towards his gun and scooping it up. But it was torn from his hands almost immediately. Brad's shadowy spirit materialized in front of Dean, it's dark eyes glowing menacingly.

With a sound like clapping thunder, it shot a bolt of electricity from the palm of its hand, sending it straight towards Dean's bag, connecting with whatever gun powder was in there and blowing the bag up in a blaze of fire – not large enough to damage the house, but enough to make Dean jump out of the way as the flames licked at his body.

"How's that playing fair!" Dean raged, watching as the fire dissipated, leaving a charred, black heap where his bag of weapons used to be.

The ghost answered by flying up to Dean and shoving him to the ground. It watched as Dean scrambled backwards, apparently happy to take its time now that Dean had no way to defend himself.

Dean gulped. He hadn't really thought this plan through. He had to admit that.

Slowly, tauntingly, the ghost lowered itself and grabbed Dean's head. Dean cringed, waiting for the inevitable.

But nothing happened. Dean opened his eyes to an empty room. A _dark _room.The lights had stopped flickering and turned themselves off. Cautiously, Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, half expecting to be shoved down again. But nothing happened. Not even a cold breeze.

Dean grinned, bending over and resting his arms on his knees as he forced his breathing to return to normal. "Sammy, you sure did take your sweet time," he muttered, reaching into his pocket to call his brother.

But he dropped the phone as something slashed his face, creating a long cut from his cheekbone to his chin. It stung like hell.

"Dammit!" Dean yelled, "I forgot to knock on wood." He noticed his gun still laying on the floor, and scrambled across the ground to grab it. "You forgot to do that Darth Sidious mojo on my gun. Big mistake," Dean yelled out, firing randomly.

The spirit flickered in front of Dean who quickly fired again, scattering it, but it reappeared almost instantly. Instincts taking over, Dean fired, over and over. But the ghost kept reappearing. It was circling Dean, flickering in and out of existence randomly, forcing Dean to fire shot after shot, wedging rock salt in every wall of that living room.

So much for the décor.

_Bet you're sorry now, _it whispered in Dean's ear before trying to wrap its fingers around Dean's neck. But the instant Dean felt those cold fingers graze his neck he fired again, scattering it once more.

"For _what_!" Dean yelled at the empty space were the ghost had been, exasperated. "Dude, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

_Bet you're sorry now, _it whispered again from somewhere across the room.

"No," Dean replied, a sneer emerging from beyond the sweat and soot on his face, not caring what Brad meant by that, "can't say that I am, bitch."

The ghost hissed and Dean's head whipped to the side as another scratch materialized next to the first one, this time deeper – Dean could feel the blood seeping from it and trickling down his face.

"Oh, I'm going to kill you so badly!" Dean raged. "If that leaves a scar, so help me…"

A scream tore through the living room. A girl's scream. It came from upstairs. The ghost vanished the instant the scream stopped. Dean held his breath, listening intently for its next move.

But it didn't come. Dean stood still, listening, waiting. He couldn't tell you for just how long.

He was brought out of his attentive stance by a ringing. His phone. Finally lowering his gun, Dean quickly grabbed his torch. Clicking it on, he shone it across the floorboards until the beam landed on his phone. He grabbed it and answered, keeping his finger on the trigger the whole time.

* * *

Sam's shirt was soaked through with sweat, his breath was becoming labored, and his arms felt like they were about to fall off. But he kept digging – clump after clump of dirt, willing his arms to move faster, to dig deeper. He had to get to those bones and burn them before Brad got to Dean and, well, killed him. 

Sam cringed at the thought, the worry and panic fueling his strength and speed.

He should never have called Dean. He should've known Dean would go and do something crazy. Something stupid. Like use himself as bait to lure that ghost away. Like put _himself_ in danger to pull Sam away from danger.

"After this is over, we're having a little chat about that hero complex," Sam muttered to himself, taking a second to wipe his brow.

"Woah!" he jumped backwards, having just noticed that he was no longer alone. Floating nearby was another ghost –gray like the first, its figure also distorted and billowing in the breeze, but with different eyes. They were calmer, sadder.

Sam slowly backed out of the hole he'd dug, staring at this new ghost while his mouth opened and closed, trying to work out what to say.

"…Bret?" Sam finally asked, the realization dawning and cutting through him like a knife.

The ghost didn't say anything for a moment, just continued to float and stare at Sam sadly.

_I'm sorry…_it finally whispered, the words dancing along the breeze until they reached Sam's ears. _It's not his fault…_

Sam's heart skipped a beat as he realized what this meant. "You keep saying that," Sam said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice – the fear and the anger. "But your brother is going to kill _my _brother if he isn't stopped."

Sam waited for the ghost to respond. Clung to some irrational hope that this thing would help Sam. Help Dean.

But all it did was turn away. _Red…_it whispered again before vanishing.

"No!" Sam yelled, diving after it, though he knew it was useless.

_No, no, no, no, _Sam thought, fumbling for his phone and dialing Dean's number. Dean picked up almost instantly.

"Dean!"

* * *

"Dean!" Sam yelled through the phone, making Dean wince and move the phone away with a frown. 

"I'm not deaf," Dean complained. "Well, actually, now I might be."

"Listen -" Sam began, but Dean cut him off impatiently.

"Dude, did you spend this time baking a cake? How long does it take you to burn some bones?"

"I haven't yet," Sam said.

"What!" Dean yelled. "Then what the hell are you doing calling me. Dig, dammit."

"But, Dean - " Sam tried to interject.

"Listen to your big brother, Sam," Dean again cut off, "Before your big brother gets pulverized. Brad's gone for a potty break, but he'll be back soon. And I'd really prefer we didn't have another play date."

"Burning them wont work!" Sam blurted out before Dean could cut him off again.

"What?" Dean asked. "Why not?"

"Because I just saw Bret's spirit."

"What!" Dean practically yelled, switching his phone to the other hand so that his uninjured one could hold the gun. He gripped it tightly.

"Yeah, exactly. It was just here talking to me."

Dean was growing more perplexed with everything Sam said. "You were having a chat with the psycho killer's brother?"

"No," Sam snapped, his voice sounding strained. Dean could practically hear the stress creases forming on Sam's face. "It said it was sorry and that it wasn't his fault. I guess he meant Brad. But Dean, that's not important. What matters is that we burnt Bret's bones and he's still here, so it's very likely burning Brad's bones wont get rid of him either. They must be getting their energy from somewhere else."

Dean's jaw worked silently as he tried to absorb this information. "No, that's impossible. You burn the bones, they die. End of story. There isn't meant to be an epilogue!"

"Well in this case there is. You gotta get out of there, Dean. Now! I don't know how to stop it."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Dean mumbled, running to the door. He tried to yank it open, but it wouldn't budge. Frowning, he backed up and kicked it.

"Ow!" he yelled, hopping up and down. "Son of a…" He backed up again and tried to ram it with his shoulder. He only managed to bruise his shoulder. The door remain steady.

"Dean?" Sam questioned through the phone.

"Uh…" Dean replied. "The door won't budge. I'm kinda stuck in here."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Well did you try the windows, other doors?"

"Gee, aren't you full of good ideas," Dean replied sarcastically. He was getting mighty annoyed by this whole freakin' situation. "I doubt the evil telekinetic homicidal ghost bitch forgot to lock the back door!"

"God, Dean, why did you go there in the first place!"

Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead, silently scolding himself for letting his panic break through like that. It was only making Sam panic in return.

Dean shrugged, despite Sam not being able to see it. "You were stuck with a dangerous spirit. I had to get it away somehow. Coming here was the fastest way. It was a plan."

"Getting yourself trapped in the house where it lived, died and now haunts is a plan? Especially after I told you it didn't want to hurt me. And after it's attacked you twice already?"

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair before using it to tug at the window shutters. "Okay, so maybe I was a bit rash," he admitted.

"A bit…?" Sam trailed off, obviously unable to deal with Dean making light of this whole thing. "And what about the Palmer family, Dean? How did you even get them to let you in?"

"Eh…" Dean gave up trying to yank the shutters open and began searching through cabinets instead, not really knowing what he was looking for.

"You just barged in, didn't you?" Sam said in a deadpan voice.

"Pretty much."

"Dean…" Sam said wearily, but Dean could hear the smile lacing through Sam's voice.

"Come on, Sam," Dean replied, "they know what's going on. They have to. They're probably the reason we can't destroy the brothers – they want to keep 'em as pets or something."

"The axe!" Sam said suddenly.

"Okay…random," Dean frowned, standing up from where he'd been crouching to search through some drawers.

"Open the door with the axe! You brought it with you, right?"

Dean sighed, really not wanting to crush the hope coming through Sam's voice.

"Yeah, I did. But… it's no longer with us."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, growing more exasperated.

"Brad kind of…blew it up. Along with the rest of my weapons."

"…You're joking."

"No…no. Not really my kind of ha-ha." Dean spotted those darn little unicorn statues and chucked them against the wall, one by one, feeling strangely satisfied as they shattered.

A noise from upstairs made him stop mid-throw – ears pricked, eyes alert, gun at the ready. Someone, or something - most likely the latter - was scampering around up there.

"Hey, Sammy, I gotta call you back…"

"Dean? What is it?"

"I'll call you back, Sammy. Just…burn the bones anyway. Just to be safe."

"Dean…" Dean could hear the unsaid concern pouring through that single word.

He smiled slightly. "I know, Sam. I owe you a coke."

Sam chuckled softly. "You better make good on that deal."

Dean hung up, pocketed his phone and crept towards the stairs, adrenaline pumping through his veins. If he was stuck in this goddam haunted house, he wasn't going to sit pretty and wait to be attacked again, that was for sure.

Placing his foot down carefully on the first step, testing to see if it would creak and give away his presence, Dean began slowly climbing. Once he reached the second floor he shone his light along the hallway. He paused when it landed on the Palmer's little girl. She was crouching in a corner, back against the wall, knees pulled up tightly. Her head was buried in her arms, but muffled sobs escaped nonetheless. And she was shaking.

Dean quickly moved and crouched down in front of her. "Sweetheart?" he asked gently. "What's wrong. Did something hurt you?"

At the sound of his voice, she jumped up, startled, backing away from him quickly. Tears stained her distressed face.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean soothed, backing up. "I don't want to hurt you, okay? I want to help."

She stopped backing away, but still stared at him with distrust shining in her wet eyes. Her chest was heaving and Dean could hear her struggling to take in breaths between her panic.

"Pinkie swear," Dean said, smiling at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way. Her panic was unnerving him, but he had to get her to trust him. Had to work out what was wrong.

Her shallow breaths were the only sounds filling the empty hallway. She looked at him quietly. "Are you the bad man?" she asked, voice trembling.

Dean was at a loss for a moment, before quickly wiping the frown from his face and forcing a grin to replace it. "No, no, I'm the good one. See this face? I'm too pretty to be bad."

She seemed to mull that over, walking up to him cautiously. She tugged at his sleeve and, surprised, Dean let her pull him down to her height.

She leant forward and whispered into his ear: "Then why does he want to kill you?"

Dean's eyes widened slightly, and he looked back at her carefully. "Who? Brad?"

She burst into tears again, startling Dean. He looked at her, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do to get her to stop crying.

"Is Brad…" he stopped, uncomfortable with her tears. "Uh…sweetheart, can you stop crying for a moment. That's a good girl. Now listen to me, this is important. Is he trying to hurt you?"

"No," she gasped, looked aghast at the notion.

Dean frowned. This was all getting too much for him. "Then what's wrong?"

Her loud crying stopped, replaced with silent tears that ran down her cheeks. She looked at Dean, distress filling her features. He waited for her to answer, not noticing that he was holding his breath.

"I'm DEAAAAAAAD!" She screamed, her voice reaching an unnatural pitch, vibrating the doors and windows around them, her face distorting and stretching to accompany the scream, her body instantly turning transparent, while the tears sliding from her cheeks instantly sizzled out of existence once they hit the floor.

"Woah!" Dean yelled, jumping back, slamming against the wall – his heart racing, his mouth turning dry. He lifted the gun and aimed it at her. Her image had returned to normal and now she just stood there, crying silently, meekly.

Dean hesitated. Taking a deep breath, he aimed it again…but just couldn't pull the trigger. He skirted away from her and bolted down the stairs instead, chastising himself for turning so soft.

Heart pounding from the shock, Dean grabbed his phone and dialed Sam as he bounded down the stairs, almost tripping a few times in his haste to get away from that girl. Okay, he was unnerved. Who wouldn't be!

"Dean? You okay?" Sam's worried voice came through the phone.

"No, I'm not okay! I'm stuck in a freak show!" Dean reached the landing and skid to the front door, trying again to open it, yanking at and rattling it with all his strength.

"Dean, what happened?"

"The whole family's dead, that's what happened! The whole freakin' family! That's why burning the bones didn't get rid of the ghosts. The Palmers are the ghosts! We've been digging up the wrong graves."

Dean gave up on the door. Looking around anxiously, his eyes landed on the photographs manning the mantelpiece. He strode up to them. There was a row of family portraits, taken year by year. In the last photograph the family looked the same age as they did now.

"What…no, that can't be right. Bret's spirit responded to that name. And Brad's spirit had a gunshot wound in his head. I mean…" Sam faltered, obviously not knowing what to say. Or think.

"Well, maybe Jamie killed himself too. But he's dead. And I can guarantee you so is his sister." Dean grabbed that last photograph off the mantle and tore the photo from it's frame, turning it over to check the date. Ah ha – 1990. "Go find the Palmer's graves, Sam. And dig faster this time."

Dean hung up before Sam could answer. Angrily, Dean chucked the photograph against the wall. This was goddam crazy.

"Don't do that," a voice said from behind him.

Dean whipped around to find Jamie standing there, a ghost of a smile etched onto his features.

"Dean," he said, almost in greeting.

"Dead-boy," Dean responded, glaring at Jamie.

Jamie just smiled, a black shadow passing through his eyes as the lights began to flicker. His fingers twitched as small bolts of electricity began to surge through them.

Dean's face hardened, an anger bubbling up inside his chest, replacing his earlier shock and fear. "You're the one who's been attacking me and my brother all along."

"Not Sam," Jamie said, almost gently. "I like Sam."

Dean felt a chill run down his spine. For some reason Jamie liking Sam was creepier than if he had just plain old wanted to kill him. "What? And you don't like me? Is it an alpha male thing?" he joked, covering up how disconcerted he felt.

"Not even close," Jamie almost snarled. Almost. The kid displayed scary little emotion.

"Well if you like my brother so much, why'd you try to trap him in the graveyard?" Dean spat.

Jamie half smiled again, eyes still locked unwaveringly on Dean. "I needed to get you away from him. Away from that salt circle. Back here – to me. And it worked. Here you are. See, you're not that bright, Dean."

Jamie's fingers began to spark with electricity.

Dean laughed hollowly, though he kept a weary eye on that hand. "Says the guy who chose to spend his afterlife living at home with his parents instead of following that light into the land of eternal bliss."

Jamie's eyes darkened again and he began to raise the hand crackling with leashed energy. Dean quickly raised his gun and fired. Jamie's eyes widened and he ducked to the floor, covering his head as the rock salt wedged itself in the wall behind him, raining bits of debris onto his back.

Jamie sprung up, glaring at Dean. He began to turn transparent, his figure contorting into the ghostly one now so familiar to Dean.

_He must be weaker when in human form_, Dean realized, shocked by the sight of Jamie ducking to the floor instead of vanishing from the room like he'd expected.

"Hey! Freakazoid," Dean shouted, knowing that he needed to get Jamie to stay in his human skin if he wanted even a chance of remaining alive while Sam found and burned the Palmer's bones. "Did I scare you? Running to hide behind your invisibility cloak, huh? Typical. All you dead things are the same – you're all cowards."

That seemed to do the trick. Jamie's figure folded back in on itself and he became Jamie again. "You're not going to make this easy on yourself, are you? You want to go out in a blaze of fire? I can arrange that."

He stretched out his arms and began drawing in the energy from the lights.

Dean looked around at the flickering fixtures anxiously, but his face hardened when his eyes met Jamie's dark, cold ones.

"Fuck. You."

Jamie curled his fists, stopping the energy flow. "Or maybe you just want to go out like the thug you are. I can arrange that too."

He let the energy fizzle out. "Answer your phone," he commanded.

Dean frowned. It wasn't even ringing!

"For _his_ sake," Jamie stressed, staring Dean with pure, undiluted hatred. "I'll let him say goodbye. He thinks he loves you. I know better, but I'll let him say goodbye. Then you're mine. And you'll finally be sorry. Just like all the others."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Dude," he finally said, "You're a nutcase."

But then his phone rang.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope this chapter was okay. I've been writing these lastfew chaps really late at night and my tiredness might be effecting the story. It's the weekend now so the next few chapters should be better.  



	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **This chapter gets a bit darker, not too much, but a bit.

**HAUNTED: Chapter 7**

_This is crazy_, Sam kept thinking, over and over, as he frantically searched through the graveyard, trying to locate a Palmer plot. There wasn't one there! And he knew there wouldn't be – the police reports had said nothing about another family dieing in that house. So what had Dean been talking about?

_This is crazy,_ Sam repeated to himself. While searching the last stretch of graves, he mentally began filing through all that had happened in the past few days. There had to be something there to explain what was going on in that house and with that family – with the Palmers and the Parkers. Then something dawned. Or more, two memories clicked into place and offered Sam the answer he sought.

… "_We thought he really loved them." The old man snorted again, "apparently Brad loved his cat more."_

_…Jamie walked past them, the cat following obediently. "Be careful," Jamie paused at the top of the stairs, turning to Dean, "rats sometimes bite back."_

Finally beginning to understand, Sam ran back to the Parker's gravestones. He shone his light across them, counting. Five in total. The parents, two boys and a little girl. He flashed back to that first day he and Dean had entered the house, pretending to be council employees. Sitting on the couches had been the parents, two boys and that little girl from his dreams. Five in total.

"The Palmers _are_ the Parkers," Sam realized, mumbling to himself. And according to Dean, Brad and Bret weren't the only ones haunting this town - the whole family had refused to move on! That meant they all had to have died violently somehow.

Dean shone his light over each gravestone. They had all died within a week of Bret's murder. Brad was the last one to die – a few days after his parents and sister. Did that mean that he'd killed them too?

But whether Brad had or hadn't, Sam and Dean weren't in the habit of revenging deaths. They're job was to stop them happening in the first place. So why had Sam had a vision of a dead girl?

Sam closed his eyes and brought the vision forward, blocking out any distraction so that he could concentrate on what he'd seen.

_A little girl ran down the empty street, crying for help. Something was hurting her family_.

It was the same girl as the Palm – er – Parker one, that was for sure. And the street around her was definitely Archers Way…wait a minute! Sam scrunched up his face as he concentrated harder, forcing his mind to hold onto the vision – of what he remembered of it. The street…it was different. More cluttered. With discarded toys, trash that had missed the bins, overgrown lawns…There! On the corner of the street hung some leftover decorations from a News Years Party. It said…1990.

Sam's eyes snapped open. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. He'd had a vision of something happening 16 years ago!

And in the ensuing shock and confusion, Sam found himself making the least important connection:

"_Hey, I remember these," Sam said, picking up one of the Strawberry Shortcake dolls. Dean gave him a look. Sam rolled his eyes. "From the girls at my pre-school."_

Sam laughed tiredly, rubbing his eyes. Well now he knew why the kid was so behind in the toy commodity department.

But what he still couldn't work out was why he was having visions of things that he couldn't possibly stop unless he miraculously fell onto a time machine. It had to have something to do with that next part of the vision – of Dean shooting someone. But who? Dean was trapped in a house where everyone was dead! God…this was all so confusing!

Gathering himself together, Sam quickly crouched to re-read those strange inscriptions. Okay, these had to hold some hint as to how this family was anchoring themselves to this world without needing their bones. And that's all Sam really cared about at the moment – finding a way to destroy the Parkers' spirits before they could hurt Dean. He could worry about the rest later.

He traced his fingers along the inscription on Bret's grave - _Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift_ – and then the one on Brad's grave - _Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother, in death he shall find the peace he missed in life._

Sam read them over again, frowning, before checking out what it said on the other graves. The girl's was standard, while a strange symbol marked the parents' graves. Sam's eyes widened – he recognized it! It was a black symbol. It helped contain dark magic.

He quickly dialed Dean.

* * *

Dean felt his heartbeat increase as his phone rang, over and over. 

What. The. Fuck… Jamie had known it was about to ring. Now that was creepy.

Jamie smiled slowly. "Are you going to answer that?" he asked, enjoying how unnerved Dean looked.

Dean swallowed, gathering back his usual bravado. "Are you going to fry me if I do?"

"No," Jamie said, almost thoughtfully. "I'll wait. I'm doing this for him, remember. Make sure to let him know this is a goodbye."

Dean slowly withdrew his phone, keeping a weary eye on Jamie's smug little self the whole time. "Sam?" he answered.

"Dean, listen to me," Sam's voice came through the line. He was talking fast, breathless. "The Palmers _are _the Parkers. Don't ask me how, just trust me."

Dean's eyes flickered towards Jamie.

"They're posing as the Palmers for our benefit. I guess Brad must have killed the rest of his family before he killed himself, and is using some sort of black magic to keep them all grounded without needing the bones. He obviously planned the whole thing before killing himself – like he decided that in death he'd win his brother's forgiveness by, I dunno, using supernatural ability to kill people he thought were a threat to his town, to people like his brother. People like him. There's a symbol marking the parents graves – theirs must be containing the energy."

Sam paused to take a breath. "Dean?"

Dean let a smile slide onto his face, watching Jamie to make sure he saw it. "Describe the symbol for me."

Jamie frowned at this.

Sam described it. Dean's smile grew wider. "I know the one." Dean had been trained to know these things. The symbol was used by certain cults to keep their dead's spirits grounded to the physical plain. But more than that – if used correctly it let the spirit hold onto part of its human side – the spirit retained its memories and personality, and was able take human form like the Parker family was doing now. They were still dead, still spirits, but could pass as human if they held their preternatural ability in check. And Dean was quickly realizing that their powers were weaker when passing as human.

"Sam," Dean said. "Dad's journal, page 70. Oh, and," and he stressed this last part, "I'll see you real soon."

Jamie just chuckled, shaking his head.

"Oh, and Sam, one other thing. Burn the parents' bones."

"NO!" Jamie yelled, his chuckle giving way to shock and then rage as he let a bolt of energy fly from his hand and shatter Dean's phone.

Dean jumped out of the way, sparing a mournful glance at the remnants of his phone before locking eyes with Jamie's ones as they burned black with anger.

It was Dean's turn to smile. "You didn't think we'd work it out, did you, _Brad."_

At the mention of his name, the muscles grew taunt in Brad's face as rage surged through him. This wasn't meant to happen!

"Haven't you seen Legally Blonde? You never underestimate the pretty ones!" Dean continued. _"Now_ who's not so bright? I mean, you have enough evil mind mojo to know that Sam's going to call, but not enough to know what he's calling about?"

"What did you _do_?" Brad's hands clenched as he shook, whether in anger or grief Dean didn't care.

"No, Brad, I think the question is what did _you _do. You shot your brother, that's what! And then killed the rest of your family!"

Brad flew at Dean, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and pushing him against the wall with such force that Dean's teeth rattled. Brad kept his hands clenched on Dean's shirt as he spoke, face so close that Dean could feel Brad's icy breath against his cheek. He turned away in disgust. "They were brought back differently to me Bret and Cindy. Burning their bones wont get rid of me. You're taking them away from me for nothing!" He slammed Dean against the wall again.

Dean felt a spark of fear shiver down his back at those words but was careful not to let it show. "So then, what, you killed them and brought them back to sing you lullabies before bedtime?"

"What would you know about it, your daddy abandoned you."

Dean froze. "What did you say?"

Brad smiled. It was a shaky smile. His anger was overpowering his usual calm.

"In the graveyard. I read Sam's memories. You're the reason his girlfriend's dead. The reason he hasn't found his dad. The reason he has no future, no friends. You tried to push your life onto him. I wont let you! Not again! Bret didn't deserve that!"

"Bret?" Dean mumbled. Ah crap, just what he needed. A remorseful ghost on the verge of a breakdown.

Still pinning Dean to the wall, Brad's eyes drifted away, staring at something only he could see. "I didn't mean to do that. He knew not to make me mad, knew I couldn't control it. But …he was my baby brother. He was trying to be like me. To be tough like me. But I'm sorry for what I did," his eyes slid back towards Dean's, "and I'm going to make you and everyone like you sorry too."

"I'm nothing like you," Dean spat, "I didn't shoot my own brother." His words were aimed at digging deep.

Brad's grip loosened on Dean's shirt and he backed away, staring at Dean with a chilling calm, his eyes becoming cool and cold once again.

Brad smiled. "No, but he shot you." He flicked his wrist and from the floor sprung a lamp's cord, snaking itself around Dean's neck. "Which tells me more than enough."

Dean's eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, clawing at the cord desperately. It tightened around his neck, cutting off his air, squeezing shut his throat.

"Brad, stop it!" a new voice entered the mix. But Dean barely noticed – he couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. Couldn't even panic! The need for air was consuming his every thought or action. His lungs screamed, ballooning up like they were trying to break free of Dean's chest. In the distance he heard a thud and realized vaguely that it was his own body falling to the ground, unable to remain upright.

"Bret, you know I have to! Why do you keep doing this to me?"

Voices, sounds, crying…it was all so far away to Dean. Black spots had begun to appear in front of his eyes. His head felt like it was floating away from his body.

"He isn't you!"

"But he will be if I don't make him sorry!"

Dean's vision was fading so fast that all he could see were patches – of shoes, of chair legs – just patches. A buzzing noise was crowding his mind, blocking his ears. He didn't know if his fingers were still clawing at the rope, he couldn't feel them anymore.

… "Please, Bret, I have to…"

… "Shh, okay…don't be upset…"

… " You'll see…"

And then he could breath. The pressure left his neck and Dean gasped, taking in breath after breath. The sounds were still distant, his sight still dark, but his lungs were singing with relief. And for a few minutes that's all he knew – the sweet sensation of breath.

Vaguely, somewhere in the distance, he felt pressure lifting from his neck. He felt his arms pulled back and bound tightly. He felt himself lifted from the ground. Feeling began to return to his body and he felt his legs stumble as he was pulled. And a door opening. And then a soft floor as he was thrown down, his head hitting something hard. And then everything went black.

* * *

"Argh," Sam grimaced, moving the phone away as a surge of static burst through it. He hesitantly placed it back against his ear. It was dead. 

_Oh that can't be good_, Sam thought.

Grabbing his shovel, he began digging up the parents' graves. "How'd you spend your night, Sam?" Sam muttered to himself. "Partying, studying, _sleeping_? No, I spent it digging up graves."

Sometime later, muscles on fire, Sam finally flicked the match onto the rotting corpses and watched them burn. He let himself fall to the ground, watching the fire for a moment as he got his breath back. He sure hoped that was the end of it. Remembering what Dean had said about their dad's journal, Sam forced his tired arms to reach for his bag and pull the journal out.

"Page 70," Sam mumbled as he flipped through them, carefully counting. Opening on what he was pretty sure was page 70, Sam quickly scanned the content. It was the right page – it had a large picture of the symbol he'd found on those headstones. Beneath the picture was a few paragraphs detailing what the symbol was used for – grounding spirits to the earth, retaining bits of their human sides, and so on. He'd pretty much guessed all that himself. It also said that destroying the things holding the energy should destroy the spirits. Well, he'd just done that.

"Red…" Sam then mumbled, remembering what Bret's spirit had said. He frowned. Where did _that_ fit in. The symbol was black. Though he knew enough to understand that Bret's spirit most likely wasn't referring to the symbol, but to something that might help them. Like how he had led them to the right house when he'd told Dean 'Archers Way.'

"Red…" Sam mumbled again. "Blood, roses…fire trucks? A lot of things are red, Sam." Sam sighed heavily. "And now I'm talking to myself, great."

He tried to ring Dean again. The phone was still dead. That doesn't have to mean anything, Sam told himself. Silently this time. It was probably just damaged. And Dean was probably on his way back to the motel right now. Sam had burnt the bones guarding the symbol. The ghosts were gone. Dean was safe.

Sam tapped the phone absently against his chin, thinking. He sprung up, grabbing his bag. He was going to the Parker house.

You know…just to be safe.

Now, the question was, how was he going to get there?

* * *

Dean's head throbbed. A groan escaped his lips before he could stop it. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself lying on a dirt floor. Confused, he struggled to lift himself up. A sharp pain shot through his arm and up his shoulder. He closed his eyes, wincing. At least now he knew why he'd found it so difficult to sit up – his hands were bound together! Tight. Behind his back. At least he was able to breathe. Why Brad hadn't just strangled him to death was a mystery in itself, but Dean sure wasn't about to question it. He was alive; that was good enough for him. 

The throbbing in his head retreating, Dean looked around. He was in some kind of basement. One with dirt floors and wooden planks littering the floor. That's obviously what he'd hit his head on. The small room was lit by numerous hanging light bulbs. To his right there was a stairwell leading up to a closed door. To his left was another wall. With some effort, he twisted around to look at what was behind him.

He gasped, involuntarily falling backwards. He struggled up, annoyed by his reaction, and let his eyes roam the wall. Splattered against it, painting it red like some sick collage, were blood stains. Numerous and varied. But all splattered. Like people had been shot up close. Many people, by the looks of it.

"Great," Dean mumbled. "Just great."

"Blood stains. That's why it has to be done down here. They stain," a voice said from across the room. Dean looked over to find Brad materializing in the empty basement. He was sitting against the opposite wall, staring at the stains.

Dean sighed, twisting himself away from that wall so that he was facing him. "Brad," he greeted unenthusiastically.

"I do hear blood stains are the darndest things to remove," Dean said when Brad didn't say anything. But Brad still remained silent. Dean raised an eyebrow. "Uh, hostage in the room. Remember me?"

Brad's face scrunched up – his eyes rimmed red, his mouth twitching. "Bret doesn't understand. He still doesn't get why I'm doing this. I keep trying to show him. I'm sorry about what I did. I'm just making sure it doesn't happen again."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh god, am I going to have to play therapist to get out of this one?"

"Shut up!" Brad yelled, jumping to his feet. "You don't know anything!"

Dean grinned, while discreetly trying to twist his hands out from the rope binding them. "I know that Bret dearest told me where to find you. Yeah, that's right. Whispered it right into my ear."

Brad stood silently, chest heaving. "You're lying."

"No, no. I don't lie. Ever since I saw Pinocchio. Don't want that shit happening to my nose."

"You're lying!" Brad screamed, his veins beginning to pulsate.

Dean carefully watched Brad grow angrier, using his distracted state to tug at his bindings more aggressively. He could feel the coarse rope rubbing into his skin, but at this point he really didn't care. His first priority was to avoid becoming a splattered mark on a stained wall.

"Brothers, huh? You should probably go talk to Bret about his squealing habit." Dean gestured towards the stairs with his head.

Brad kept glaring at Dean, his chest heaving, his lips pulled back in a snarl. "You can't get out of those ropes. I'm not an idiot. They're tight."

Dean stopped struggling for a second, surprised.

"I know what you're trying to do…I wont let you turn me against him!" His voice rose in anger.

Okay, that backfired, Dean admitted, gulping. He grimaced as he watched a hole appear in the side of Brad's head – the gun shot wound was materializing.

"Uh, you got something on your head there," Dean pointed out.

Brad backhanded him across the face. Hard. Dean fell to the floor, but instantly struggled back up into his sitting position. He Glared at Brad as his face stung, and he knew a red mark had been left behind.

"Huh. Now so do you," Brad said, throwing Dean's grin back at him.

"At least I'm still pretty," Dean spat back.

Brad just smiled, before reeling back his arm and punching Dean in the mouth. Dean's head snapped back and stars spun in front of his eyes as he felt warm blood run down his chin. Once the world stopped spinning, he turned his head and spat it out.

"No wonder your brother's teaming up with us to get rid of you – you hit like a girl," Dean said, tasting the blood in his mouth.

Brad's eyes clouded over, and his lifted up his hand. The lights began flickering as he drew the electricity into his hand. "If I hit like a girl, I zap like Zeus."

He sauntered up to Dean and leant down in front of him, smiling as Dean's muscles strained in his failed attempt to avoid flinching. He placed his fingers on Dean's chest and let the energy surge out from his fingertips.

Heat exploded in Dean's chest and he clenched his jaw, eyes shut tightly against the pain. But it stopped almost instantly. Panting slightly, Dean opened his eyes. God, he wanted to wipe that smug smile off Brad's face.

"Told you," was all Brad said.

"Yeah, bet you told Bret too. I can see why you won brother of the year. Oh, wait, that wasn't you. They disqualify murderers."

Brad angrily slammed his hands down on Dean's chest and let more bolts of energy rip from his fingers and into Dean's body. Dean cried out as the energy flew through him in a burst of heat and pain, cutting through him like a jagged knife. He fell to the ground, his body writhing, his hands clenching into tight fists behind him. But then it was over again.

He lay there panting, sweat trickling down his face, heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. Okay that had hurt. A lot. Time to shut up, Dean, he warned himself. No more goading the human electrical pole. He tried to lie still, any movement jolting a spark of residue pain through his body. But Brad grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against the blood stained wall. Dean cringed, waiting for the ripples of pain to pass. Then he opened his eyes, staring at Brad unwaveringly.

"No more smart remarks?" Brad asked. "I think I'm getting through to you. People need to be taught by example. I learnt from my past, and then I taught this town. The troublemakers were my example. I weeded them out. People learnt. Now it's your turn, Dean."

Dean concentrated on breathing deeply, on keeping his anger at bay.

"And your brother will thank me."

Dean's anger sprang to the surface and he used his bound hands to push away from the wall, swiping at Brad with his shoulder. "You leave Sam out of this! We are nothing like you two!"

Brad picked up a piece of plank and swung it, almost gracefully. It struck Dean in the stomach and he fell to his knees, winded, coughing.

"You're wrong." He brought the plank down on Dean's back. Dean collapsed to the ground, his lips tasting dirt. "You're just like me, you're all just like me. You stop for a moment. You look around. You realize there's nothing else. You _are _nothing else. This is all you are. Your brother wanted to be more, you drew him back."

Brad drew back his leg and kicked Dean in the ribs, flipping him over onto his back. Dean tried to curl up against the pain sparking through his ribs, to draw up his knees and lie there on his side, but Brad kicked him again, in the same spot, jarring the cracked ribs. Dean's back arched in the effort not to scream. His brow was furrowed, his breath shaky, his skin warming up in reaction to the pain, but he forced his eyes open and let them connect with Brad's.

"Something to say, Dean?"

Dean stared at him for a moment, but then looked away. "No," he whispered.

Brad watched him for a moment. He then grabbed Dean and pulled him up, slamming him back against the wall. Dean's legs couldn't hold his weight and slid back down. Brad grabbed Dean's head and he tried to recoil, but Brad held on strong.

"And I know why I'm - " Brad scrunched up his face and shook his head, "why _you_, why you are like that," he quickly corrected.

Dean wanted nothing more than to roll his eyes and spit back a smart remark, but with his lips stinging, his head swimming, his body still reeling from the aftershocks of the, well, shocks, and his ribs continually shooting out bursts of pain every time he breathed, Dean wisely decided against it.

Brad let himself shimmer out of existence and return a second later, gray and transparent, back in his spirit form. An icy breeze suddenly swept the room as the lights began to flicker and Brad's spirit began sparking with energy. Dean felt the cold creep up his spine.

Brad's spirit put his hands back on the sides of Dean's head. Dean winced at the touch, but let his eyes again meet Brad's, anger shooting out of them. "You…you think…just because…" Dean coughed, trying to get the words out through the blood welling in his mouth and the pain shooting through his ribs, "because I swear…and speak rudely…that…that brother of mine…that you like so much… needs you to rescue him…from me…god help us from psychotic losers…"

Dean didn't get a chance to finish. Angrily, Brad's spirit squeezed Dean's head and let the energy rip from his fingers, letting it course into Dean's head and puncture into his blood stream, traveling the length of his body, splicing through it with a speed and strength that left Dean screaming.

"I'm - you're_...you_ are like that because of the loneliness. We wear it like a jacket. We tried to swallow it and move on. But cant, couldn't. So we bring them into it. Use them to clamber out of the water, not caring if we drown them in the process…"

Dean could barely understand what Brad was saying. Dean's body was taunt, his jaw clenched tightly, his hands straining against the rope. Blue and white spots were erupting in front of his vision. He banged his head against the wall and dug frantic grooves into the dirt floor with his legs. _Get off me! _he tried to shout, but the words got caught in his throat, tangled with his screams. He could feel the blood dripping from his eyes and nose and ears. Could taste it in his throat, taste it passing over his lips. He couldn't breathe! Couldn't move!

But then it stopped. Dean instantly slumped, his head falling to his chest. His breath past his lips in shuddering gasps. His skin felt clammy and cold. He shivered without realizing it. Coughed and chocked on his own blood without noticing.

Vaguely, through the ringing in his ears, Dean heard that little girl's voice. It sounded far away. But hell, so did Brad's voice and he was right in front of Dean. "The other one's here!" she said.

The ringing in his ears disappeared and Dean fought through the fog in his head that was trying to smother him.

"What's he doing here?" Brad asked, stepping away from Dean, uncertain.

"I don't know. What do we do?" she asked, sounding scared.

Dean struggled up onto his knees. "No…Sam…" Dean gasped out. "Don't you dare hurt him…"

"Go hide, Cindy," Brad commanded. This wasn't meant to happen! He wasn't meant to be here! Brad waited for Cindy to leave the room and then grabbed a plank of wood. He swung it at Dean's head.

Dean felt the wood connect, felt his head whip to the side, felt his body sway, felt the air rushing past him as he began to fall. He saw the ground spinning in front of him, spinning closer. He felt himself hit the ground, felt dirt spray his face, felt his ribs jar from the impact. He felt blackness begin to creep across his vision. And he didn't fight it. Didn't want to fight it.

He let it take him.

* * *

TBC 

A/N: Why not leave a review and let me know what you thought...grins


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **It's a busy time, but I _will_ finish this story before uni begins again! It's hurtling towards its conclusion…only one or two chapters to go. Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you thought.

**Chapter 8**

Sam hopped out of the taxi and paid with a quick, automatic smile. He couldn't believe he was coming to his brother's rescue – no, not rescue! Just…coming – via a taxi. He silently promised himself never to tell Dean or risk never hearing the end of it. He turned towards the Parker's house and stopped short. There was the Impala sitting at the curb. That meant Dean was definitely still here.

"He's probably just tidying up," Sam assured himself under his breath. _Ha!_ His mind automatically spat back.

Sam took a deep breath and strode to the front door, quickly retrieving his own axe from his bag to force it open. But it creaked ajar on its own. Sam hesitated. Was that normal? In their line of work, yes, Sam thought dryly.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked into a dark house. "Dean?" he called out tentatively. No answer.

Sam moved his hand along the wall until he felt it pass over the light switch. He flipped it on. Soft light bathed a battered living room. Apprehension clawed at Sam's stomach as his eyes took in the charred carpet, the destroyed furniture, the large dents in the walls and the pocketed patterns decorating almost every available space thanks to the amount of rock salt Dean had obviously had to fire.

"Dean?" Sam called again, louder this time. More urgent. Still no answer. Dean wouldn't just leave his Impala parked out front. So where was he?

Sam moved quickly towards the steps. His foot crunched on something. Looking down absently, Sam quickly lifted his foot when he realized that he was stepping on Dean's phone. Or what was left of it, at least. Eyes widening, Sam now understood why the line had gone dead: No phone, no line. Jesus, what had happened here? Looking around at the remnants of the shattered phone scattered all over the floor, Sam noticed Dean's gun lying a few feet away.

Blinking at it dumfounded for a second, Sam frowned. Dean would not have left his gun behind voluntarily. Sam scooped it up and turned, hurrying towards the stairs. "You better be up there," Sam mumbled, ignoring the dread that was beginning to build in his stomach.

_This way…_ a voice whispered in his ear just as Sam felt something tug at his sleeve. Sam whipped around, startled. He thought he caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair, but he'd blinked and now it was gone. Only an empty room stared back at him. Heart beating against his chest, Sam stilled his breath and listened for that soft, young voice. It didn't say anything else. But Sam let himself sink back against the wall as he realized that there was still someone haunting this place. They were still in danger.

He snapped back to attention, though, as a creaking noise drifted through to him from somewhere around the corner. Instantly alert, Sam leveled Dean's gun in front of him and carefully rounded the corner. In the room over – the kitchen – there was a door, slowly creaking back and forth to the whim of an unfelt breeze. It looked like it led to the basement.

Now, basic common sense told Sam that when a mysterious voice leads him to an open door that most likely leads to the basement in a haunted house, the smart thing to do would be to avoid said door and said basement. But Sam just…couldn't. Something wanted him to check down there, and it hadn't felt like whoever had whispered in his ear wanted to hurt him. Nonetheless, Sam grabbed a chair and propped it up between the door and its frame to stop it slamming shut on him. Hopping over it, he then slowly ventured into the dark stairwell.

"Dean?" he called out. "You down here?" Still no answer. Sam lifted out his arm and felt for the banister. Once he had a firm grip, he started walking down the stairs, his other hand moving along the wall, searching for the light switch.

He finally found it and switched it on. And froze. His breath caught in his throat and the colour drained from his cheeks as he looked at a bound, bloodied and battered figure, lying completely still. He'd found Dean.

"Dean?" Sam managed to whisper, a cold running through his body, clutching at his chest. No answer. No movement. "Oh god…"

Sam somehow managed to get control back over his body and ran down the stairs, almost stumbling in his haste. Reaching the dirt floor beneath, practically skidding to a stop, he slowly knelt at Dean's side, taking in all his injuries with a growing sense of anguish.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked shakily, reaching out touch Dean's shoulder but drawing back at the last second, afraid to hurt him more.

Dean was lying on his side, arms bound awkwardly, glistening blood matting the side of his hair, blood smeared across his face, running from his mouth, his eyes, his nose. Creeping out from beyond Dean's hairline, from where the blood matted the side of his head, ran a large bruise – a collage of black and purple – which blended into the smaller ones already marring his face.

Sam quickly moved to untie Dean's hands, hating that his arms were bound like that. Like he was a criminal. God, how could this have happened…

At Sam's touch, Dean stirred.

"Dean?" Sam asked, scooting back round in time to see Dean's eyelids flutter open. Sam almost cried in relief.

"…Sam?" Dean slurred out, staring up at him with unfocused eyes, and then closing them again with a small groan.

"Yeah, it's me. It's okay, Dean, everything's okay," Sam rushed out, terrified that Dean's eyes had closed again. And by how shallow and shaky his breath sounded. "Can you keep talking?"

Dean just lay there for a second, eyes still closed tightly, breath rattling past his lips. "Never known how not to," he finally managed to mumble.

Sam smiled a little, but strong worry still tugged at his chest. "Can you move, Dean?"

"Gotta untie me first, Sammy," Dean muttered, a wince robbing the words of their pinch as Dean tried to move his head to look up at Sam.

"Right," Sam said, rushing back to Dean's hands. _Idiot_, Sam berated himself. He tugged at the ropes, stopping instantly when he heard Dean suck in air. He looked down at how tightly they were pressing into Dean's wrists. How was he going to untie these without hurting his brother more? Sam took a deep breath and tugged at the ropes more quickly.

Dean must have noticed Sam pause and realized that Sam had heard him wince. He tried to cover it up with his usual banter: "Where's Prince charming when you need him. My knight can't even untie a knot," Dean coughed out. It sounded wet.

"Ass," Sam retorted lightly, keeping up the banter for Dean's sake, though he nearly choked with concern when he finally unknotted the ropes and saw that Dean's wrists had been rubbed raw. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to hold it together.

"Here, they're off," Sam said, hoping that he'd kept the tremor from his voice. In disgust, he chucked the rope into the basement's corner and returned to Dean's side as Dean slowly forced himself off the ground and into a sitting position, clenching his jaw and wincing with every movement. Once upright, he turned and spat some blood onto the ground.

Sam's heart sunk at the sight, and further still when he noticed the long, pink mark running around the length of Dean's neck. The sight instantly brought back memories of the marks left over from his own near-strangulation, by the poltergeist back in Kansas. He hated that it had obviously happened to Dean too, and that, unlike Sam, there had been no one there to help him.

"What happened, Dean?" Sam asked gently, rubbing Dean's back in slow circles.

Dean didn't answer for a second, blinking his eyes rapidly and shaking his head slightly, trying to clear his head and focus his eyes. "Take your pick," he finally said dryly.

Sam swallowed hard and nodded.

"And I'd really prefer you didn't touch my back," Dean spat.

Sam instantly moved away his hand, stung and confused.

Dean caught the look and quickly explained, not having meant for it to sound like that. "Back a bit sore, too."

"Oh," Sam said, because it was all he could say. Sam wasn't used to seeing Dean battered like this. It was scaring him. And so was the amount of blood that ran down from Dean's head and neck, leaving a large stain on his shoulder.

Realizing what had happened, Sam looked around and saw the discarded plank of wood lying a few feet away. Sam was torn between nausea and rage when he saw the circle of blood staining the end of it. He quickly turned back to Dean who was holding his head and rubbing at his chest absently

"Dean, you might have a concussion. Or worse. We have to get you out of here," Sam said urgently. Dean didn't respond – his eyes were blank, staring at something far off.

"Dean!" Sam said again, louder this time, jolting Dean back to the present.

"Uh, right, okay," he mumbled. "Considering I'm seeing two of you right now, not such a bad idea." A deep frown etched into his face, Dean grimaced as he slowly tried to pick himself off the ground.

Dean was teetering up onto his feet, so Sam quickly wrapped an arm around him to help steady him. Dean yelped and automatically shoved Sam away, wrapping an arm protectively around his ribs and bending over, a sheen of sweat appearing across his forehead. "Fuck, Sammy," he said.

"I'm sorry," Sam said quickly, eyes widening.

Breathing hard, trying to ease the pain, Dean looked up at Sam's stricken face and raised an eyebrow, as if really just noticing he was there.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Uh, I came too see if you were okay," Sam said. "Which, clearly, you are – didn't need my help at all."

Dean rolled his eyes, straightening up. His movements slower than they should be. "You shouldn't have come. I came here to get him away from you, and you follow right after it. Jesus."

Sam let a frown crease his face, a flicker of annoyance almost detracting from his concern for Dean. Almost.

"I can't believe you're complaining about me rescuing you."

Dean shrugged. "Eh, it's what I do. Now we getting out of here or you waiting for the haunts to throw you a bon voyage party?"

Sam smirked, relieved that Dean's sarcasm was still in tact. "Option A," he said, reaching for Dean's arm to help him up the steps. He looked incredibly unstable, and Sam wasn't even sure if Dean knew he was swaying like that.

"Gerroff me," Dean muttered, lightly shrugging out of Sam's grip.

Sam backed off, not wanting to argue with Dean. Not able to argue with Dean when he looked this…hurt. It was unsettling him. Dean was meant to be charging up those stairs, guns blazing. Not wincing with each step and knees buckling under his own weight.

Wait a moment…caught by surprise, Sam quickly reached out to catch Dean but felt his fingers only graze Dean's shirt as he collapsed. "Dean!" Sam shouted, rushing to his side.

"God dammit!" Dean shouted, punching the ground and then grimacing at the shock the movement sent into his ribs. He glanced over to see Sam staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Though he was finding it difficult to breathe, and concentrate, and to ignore the dizziness that was threatening to consume him, Dean forced a grin onto his face. "And all this time I thought you were the klutzy one."

Sam half-smiled, but it barely lasted a second. Dean sighed. "Help me up, Sammy," he finally relented. They'd be down here all day otherwise. With Sam staring at him like that all day. He could only imagine what he looked like for Sam to be consumed by such obvious concern. Thank god, then, Sam couldn't see how he actually felt. Being run over by a steamroller didn't nearly cover it.

Gathering up all the energy he had left, Dean forced himself not to grimace as Sam grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet and quickly, but carefully, guided him up the stairs. Dean let Sam support most of his weight, silently grateful that Sam was playing it just as discreet as he was, not making a show of fussing over him.

After what seemed like a century, they finally reached the front door and Sam grabbed the door handle. Nothing happened. He pulled at it again. It wouldn't budge! Looking at Dean in disbelief, Sam grabbed the handle with both hands and tugged.

"Move, let me try," Dean said, swatting Sam away.

Sam's eyebrows raised and then dissolved into a frown. "You can barely stand yet you think you can open it when I couldn't?"

"I had my spinach today," Dean responded, grabbing the door handle and pulling. "Huh," Dean said, sounding genuinely surprised when it wouldn't budge. Sam snorted and shook his head, but instantly froze when he felt that icy cold wind flutter into the room.

He whipped around to look at Dean, who had tensed up, eyes alert.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dean muttered, before he felt a force grab him from behind and haul him across the room, slamming him against a wall. Dean gasped at the impact, feeling his ribs jolt and his bruises double. He fell to his knees, but struggled to his feet as he saw Brad materialize in front of him. Without even taking a second to offer a snide comment, Brad slammed his fist into Dean's stomach, forcing Dean to double over as he choked for air. He then used his preternatural abilities to send Dean hurtling through the air once again, crashing into the restored coffee table.

"Dean!" Sam called, shooting a load of rock salt at Brad's spirit who instantly disappeared.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, wrapping an arm more tightly around his ribs as he slid himself up.

Sam rushed to Dean and helped pull him from the rubble, ignoring Dean's objections, knowing that Brad would return any second and they had to move. "Come, on, Dean, we gotta go," Sam said urgently, grabbing Dean under the arm to help pull him along.

Dean tore away and grabbed the shotgun from Sam's hands. "Uh uh! No way! I'm killing that son of a bitch!"

"Dean, come on! There's no time for this!" Sam implored, expecting Brad's spirit to pop back into the living room at any second.

Dean ignored Sam, anger sparking in his eyes, his lip curled into a snarl as he pointed the gun and swung it around him. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, you crazy psycho!"

"Dean!" Sam yelled, grabbing him firmly by the arm and pulling him towards the stairs – escaping the house was proving impossible, so upstairs would have to do for now. He hated that he was using Dean's weakened state against him, but he needed to get Dean away from that living room. He half dragged Dean up the stairs.

Both stopped short when the lights began flickering. Sam gulped. Not good.

But Dean grinned. "That's right…come and get me."

A figure shimmered into existence in front of Dean. Faster than he should've been able to given his injuries, Dean lifted his gun and fired, rock salt tearing through the transparent spirit, forcing it to disappear.

"Not so fun when your prey bites back, is it?" he yelled.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said, worried by the way the lights were still flickering. Being trapped on a flight of stairs wasn't the safest place to be right now.

"At some point, you gotta take a stand - " Dean's remark was cut short as something grabbed him by the legs and pulled. Dean's back hit the ground as he was yanked down the stairs. Startled, Sam still managed to grab Dean by his shirt, while Dean's fingers latched onto the banister.

Sam's heart beat against his chest as he strained to pull Dean back up and keep him from being yanked down those stairs. Trying to keep his hold on Dean while positioning himself better, Sam was awkwardly able to wrap one arm around Dean's chest while grabbing the banister with the other.

His eyes widened when saw Dean let go of his own hold on the banister. Dean was instantly pulled forward, almost taking Sam with him, but Sam tightened his grip, straining against the strength of whatever force was latched onto Dean. "What are you doing?" Sam yelled.

Dean ignored him and grabbed for the gun he'd dropped. And fired. The pressure left his legs and both he and Sam fell backwards. Sam scrambled up and pulled Dean with him. "Come on," he said, the urgency ripping through his voice.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Running on pure adrenaline, Dean managed to struggle up the stairs and ignore the pain that was now shooting through his back also. Goddamn house.

They reached the landing and both turned as the door at the end of the hallway crept open.

"In there," Sam said, moving towards it, pulling Dean with him.

"Whoa, you're kidding me, right?" Dean said, grinding his feet and wrangling his arm from Sam's grip, annoyed that Sam could so easily pull him along in the first place. "You seriously gonna walk into a room that's practically beckoning? After everything's that gone down in this house?"

Sam rubbed his forehead. "Look, I don't think Brad's the only spirit still here," he explained quickly looking behind Dean. The longer they stood out there, the more likely another attack would occur. "It was a 'beckoning' door that led me to you. Just trust me, okay?"

Dean sighed heavily and looked away from Sam's imploring gaze. "Fine," he grumbled, and began walking – well, limping – towards the room, choosing to trust Sam over the trepidation clawing at his chest.

The room was a small bedroom – dust had long settled over most of the items, but from the excessive amount of black and the barren decor, it looked like one of the teenager's old rooms.

Dean lowered himself into a chair, a wave of dizziness breaking through the adrenaline the instant he let his body relax. He lowered his head into his hands and waiting for the spell to pass.

"Dean?" Sam asked, looking up from where he knelt by his bag.

"I'm fine," Dean waved off, voice muffled by his hands.

Sam swallowed his concern and quickly resumed rummaging through his bag. Pulling out a canister of salt, he quickly proceeded to create a salt circle around the room. Dean looked up from where he sat hunched over the room's small table.

"You realize that's like using fly spray to ward off Godzilla," he pointed out.

Sam continued to carefully shake the salt around the room. "But it'll keep it from attacking us long enough to try and figure out what we're going to do."

"From attacking _me_," Dean corrected dryly. "Brad's not after you. He likes you."

"What are you talking about?" Sam said, finishing up the circle and making sure the ends merged perfectly to create a strong barrier against the house's spirits.

"Well," Dean sighed, "from what I gathered, not being too bright and all -"

Sam frowned at that, but let it slide, noting the sarcasm in Dean's voice.

" – Brad's feeling a bit guilty over shooting his brother – go figure – so, to make it up to dear old Bret, he's been killing people he thinks are like himself. I apparently fit the bill – I'm loud, I swear, I give you a hard time sometimes. He thinks he's protecting people like Bret from people like him. Personally, I'd prefer he'd take his self-loathing out on, you know, himself, but hey, that's just my opinion."

Sam frowned, not quite understanding.

"_You're_ the one he's protecting, Sammy," Dean elaborated, seeing Sam's blank look. "He's doing some psychotic over-emphasising thing, where you're, like, Bret, and I'm, like, Brad, and he needs to protect you from me. Very Freudian of him."

Sam's mouth slid open a little, and he sunk down into the chair opposite Dean, the sinking feeling in his stomach making it impossible for him to remain standing.

His mind swung back to that memory of him wishing Dean wasn't so hot-headed as the air grew cold around him, and then barging into the motel room to find Brad trying to drown Dean. _Oh my god…_it was after Dean because of him!

"But…how…" Sam mumbled.

"Apparently he did some mind reading thing while you two were in the graveyard. Something you wanna tell me there, Sammy boy?" Dean said lightly, but he was watching Sam carefully.

Sam's head whipped around to look at Dean, frowning in shock. "No! God, Dean, how can you even ask that? I mean, yes, I get annoyed at you sometimes, I mean, you're annoying, but that's a far stretch from wanting you hurt."

Dean nodded, smirking. "I know that, Sam. Where would you be without me? Listening to bad music lost somewhere, is my guess. You don't want that."

Sam chuckled, but his eyes looked far away.

Dean cleared his throat, and said this next bit as nonchalantly as he could. "I think, actually, Brad thinks he's protecting you _from _me. Like, crazily enough, I'm wrecking your life, or something." Dean forced himself to laugh at the thought, but then glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "You don't think I'm dangerous, do you?"

Sam smiled at this. "Dean, if I did, would I really be sitting here with you in a circle of salt trying to save your ass?"

"Hey!" Dean objected, a smile tugging at his own lips. "I don't need saving." Sam gave him a look. "Well, you know, down there in the basement was a one off thing. I wanted to see what it was like being rescued all the time – walk a mile in your shoes and all." Dean grinned.

Sam shook his head. But the smile left his lips as he again noticed how pale and bloodied Dean was. _God…_Dean had almost died because of something Brad had seen inside him, Dean's own brother.

"Sam," Dean said gently. "It really is okay. Not your fault. He's just latching onto surface emotions. If everyone who had someone annoyed at them died…well, there wouldn't really be any of us left. Really, don't worry about it."

Sam sprung up and ran his hands through his hair. "Or you'd be left with a freakily polite town with hundreds of mysterious deaths." He looked at Dean, "I burnt the parents' bones, why is Brad's spirit still even here? Is he just…refusing to move on? God…"

"Apparently him, Bret and their sister were brought back differently. The parents were just haunting this place for the hell of it." Off of Sam's questioning look, Dean elaborated: "It's amazing what the bad guys will reveal right before they try to off you."

Sam sighed and absently looked around the room. It seemed they were back at square one. His eyes were suddenly drawn by a bright red book sitting conspicuously on the room's single shelf.

"Red!" Sam exclaimed, moving towards the shelf.

Dean frowned. "Man, would you start forming proper sentences!"

"Red," Sam said again, looking at Dean excitedly, and then pulling the book from its shelf, quickly flipping it open.

"Or just shout the word 'red' over and over," Dean muttered, moving to see what Sam was so excited about, before a sharp pain forced him to sit back down again. Damn, he couldn't wait to destroy that Brad bitch once and for all.

"Bret said 'red' to me the last time I saw him. It has to be another clue about how to stop his brother. This book, Dean, is red. In a room full of black. And look," he pointed to the title, "Ancient Cult Rituals."

"Well, you're just making friends all over the place, aren't you? Does it tell us anything useful?" Dean rubbed his head, he was growing more tired the longer they sat there, his adrenaline quickly waning and leaving a mass of aches and pains behind.

Sam flipped to the dog-marked page and quickly read it.

"Oh wow," he said when he was done.

"What?" Dean asked impatiently.

"It seems like Brad got his hands on some serious black magic before he died. This here documents how to keep a part of you grounded after death."

"Like what that black symbol on the parents' graves was used for," Dean said, not seeing how this was any help.

"No. I mean, yes, but, this here tells you how to, theoretically, go further. Instead of using an item, like the parents' bones, to contain your essence, you actually leave a part of yourself alive and _that_ is what keeps you from being destroyed. Using the right magic, Brad was able to physically kill himself and his siblings, but left their memories, personality and basic…essence…literally still grounded. They're alive…just…without the body part. And with, you know, all those abilities you get when in spirit form."

Dean frowned, frustration growing in his chest. "Dude, isn't that basically what being a spirit is? Just in fancy terms?"

"No, no," Sam said quickly, excitedly. Now they were getting to the bottom of this. "A spirit is a manifestation of some part of the person when they were alive. Brad, Bret and their sister…they're completely and utterly still Brad and Bret. Only without their human bodies. And that's why they could pass as the Palmers so easily – they're still so connected to the human plane that they can form temporary bodies. Brad managed to find a way to squeeze into that tiny gap between life and afterlife."

Dean raised an eyebrow, really too tired and worn-out to comprehend the logistics. "Whatever, dude. Does it say how to kill his half-dead self?"

But Sam didn't answer. He was lost in thought. "Brad must have known what he was doing before he killed himself. And his family must have agreed to it. Bret had no choice – he was already dead by this time. He must not agree with what Brad's doing – this…crusade to rid the town of people like himself – and that's why he's been helping us. And obviously Brad only had enough resources to bring himself, Bret and his sister back this way – he stuck to the less advanced method for his parents. Wow…"

Sam's memory flashed back to the engravings:

Bret's grave - _Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift_ – and then the one on Brad's grave - _Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother, in death he shall find the peace he missed in life._

Yep, the only whole family had appointed themselves town-protectors.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, jolting Sam back to the present. Dean gestured for Sam to pass him the book. He wanted to see if it said how to destroy them.

"He must have been a pretty smart kid to know about all this. Where would he even find this stuff?" Sam noted, passing the book to Dean.

Dean flipped to the book's back page. Smirking, he held it up for Sam to see. "Local library."

Sam scoffed, until he saw Dean wasn't joking. He choked in indignation. "Do they even monitor what they're lending people?"

"Calm down, Sam. You can join the angry PTA when we get out of this mess, now…" he began scanning the page Sam had been reading. "How to finish off what Brad started…" He squinted at the pages, finding it difficult to read. That wasn't good.

"Here, you check," he said passing the book to Sam. Sam reached for it hesitantly, his concern breaking to the surface again.

"Just read it," Dean said before Sam started asking him if he was all right again. He wasn't. But they could do jack about it until they left this house. And that meant destroying the Parkers once and for all.

Sam stole one last glance at Dean before quickly scanning the page again. After a minute, he flipped it over and read a couple more pages. He looked back up at Dean, stricken.

"…what?" Dean said after a pause. "Don't tell me we gotta go find ourselves some kryptonite or something?"

"No…no," Sam said slowly. "The only way to stop them is to turn them corporeal…turn them human."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "No shit, we know how to resurrect people, now?"

"No. Just them. Because of this magic they used, they're already part human. They're just lacking bodies. So, given it's done the right way, we can turn their temporary bodies into permanent ones. They'll be human again."

Dean let this sink in. No wonder Sammy was freaked. They'd never done anything like this before. "Okay, so we do a little Lazarus magic, and then we can finally kill that son of a bitch."

"We can't, Dean!" Sam said, shocked by the suggestion. "They'll be helpless, again. Powers gone. We can't just kill another human being. We'll have to call the police."

"And tell them what!" Dean said incredulously, angry that Sam was bringing his morals into something that so obviously didn't call for them. "We have a murderer here who was meant to have died 16 years ago, but that really didn't, he's been on a murdering spree instead, oh, and yeah, he hasn't aged a day since his apparent death."

Sam sighed. "I don't know, we'll think of something. But I'm not killing him, Dean. You aren't either. I wont let you. You won't forgive yourself if you do."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You need to watch more violent movies. Get yourself a bit more desensitized." He looked at Sam's set mouth and pleading eyes. "Okay, fine, whatever! Just do the spell already so we can go squealing to the pigs."

Sam smirked. But quickly became alert when a loud banging shook the walls around them. Dean hopped up from the chair, ignoring his body's protests as he edged closer to Sam, instinct again making him step protectively in front of Sam.

"Start whatever you need to do to turn this sucker human, Sam," Dean said quietly, lifting his gun in front of him.

Sam nodded and hurried to his bag as the banging increased, rattling against the walls, and causing the salt to bounce in place. Sam stared at the circle wearily. He hoped it would hold.

Dean was also watching the salt, and his eyes widened as a breeze from under the door scattered it. He quickly looked up as the door slammed open and he felt the gun torn from his fingers. He dived for it, but felt a force – an unforgiving rage – latch onto him and pull him from behind.

"Sam!" he shouted, reaching out for his brother as he was yanked from the room.

"No!" Sam yelled, but he couldn't reach Dean in time. He could only watch as Dean was pulled from the room with startling speed, the room's door slamming shut behind him.

Sam stared at the spot where Dean at stood a second ago in bewilderment, before running after him. Or that was his intent, at least. He ended up skidding to a stop and staggering backwards as Brad materialized in front of him.

Sam stood cautiously, watching as Brad stared at him. And then…Brad smiled.

Sam frowned, taken completely off guard.

"You don't have to stay. You can leave," Brad said.

Sam's frown deepened. "I'm not leaving without my brother!"

"You don't have to listen to him anymore. Go to college. Live a normal life," Brad answered, still staring at Sam with that disquieting smile.

Sam stared at him for a second, head tilted to the side, breathing deeply. He licked his lips and forced down his anger. "I cant do that without Dean, so please, let him go."

Brad frowned. "No…I know you want him dead. I'm helping you, don't you see? I'm sorry, and he'll be sorry too. Why don't any of you understand!" he yelled, his voice reverberating off the windows.

Sam backed up, realizing our precarious the situation was. "No," Sam breathed earnestly. He had to convince this thing that Dean didn't deserve to be killed. "Dean isn't like that. He's a good person. You don't want to kill a good person, Brad."

Brad's frowned deepened and his breath began to shudder. In the next second he was in front of Sam, placing his hand on Sam's head. Sam cringed, but instead of a burst of pain, again his memory was accessed. This time only one memory was pulled forward – of the Asylum. Of the anger. Of Sam pulling the trigger.

And then Brad removed his hand and stepped back again, staring at Sam in sympathy. "See, you wanted him dead, but he tricked you."

Sam's eyes widened as he realized what Brad was latching onto. Sam's words got caught in his throat as he struggled to explain. "No…you don't understand. I was possessed. I didn't mean any of that!"

Brad just smiled. "Don't worry, Sam. I'll finish the job for you." He turned and headed back for the door.

A chill ran down Sam's spine. "No!" he yelled diving after him, but Brad flicked his wrist and Sam felt himself slammed up against the wall. He slid to the ground, stunned.

Brad then held out his arm and the shotgun flew into his hands, then a pack of bullets from Sam's bag. Sam watched with widening eyes, a cold dread freezing his breath in his lungs.

"Bullets will work a hell of a lot better than rock salt," Brad said, pulling the line from Sam's own memory. He smiled at Sam once more and disappeared.

"No!" Sam cried, running to the door, tugging at it with all his strength. "You don't understand!" he shouted through it, banging on it with his fists. "Please! Don't! I didn't mean it!" He rattled the handle some more, slammed his shoulder against it. "It wasn't like that! Don't you dare hurt him! Dean! Dean!"

Sam backed away, fear and guilt and anger clawing at his chest. Struggling to breathe, he turned around in circles, trying to find something to open the door, to get to his brother.

There wasn't anything.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Second last chapter, finally here for your reading pleasure! It's all come down to this…Thank you so much to those of you who take the time to review! You guys are my motivation, you rock ;)

That said, hope you can all take the time to review these last two chapters. But, more importantly, I hope you enjoy them.

**Chapter 9:**

Sam's muscles strained as he yanked at the door, trying to force it open, trying to get to his brother before Brad did with that gun. He had to finally give up when his fingers began to numb.

Sam ran his hands through his hair in frustration, panic clawing at his chest. God, he hadn't meant it. He didn't want Dean hurt. He wanted him alive! He wanted him safe. He wanted him here next to him, now, cracking smart-assed jokes.

Sam took a shaky breath, calming himself down, forcing himself to think. To find a way.

But he couldn't concentrate, couldn't stop thinking about Dean being torn from the room, about the weakened state he was in, about bullets tearing through his body.

The spell! Dean's only chance now was being able to defend himself. And that meant stealing away Brad's supernatural ability. He had to turn the remaining Parkers human again.

Sam quickly picked up the book from where he'd dropped it and opened it to that dog-marked page. Scanning through what had to be done, letting his desire to save Dean overpower any trepidation or doubt he was feeling, Sam grabbed his bag and pulled out the stuff he'd need.

He took a second – but only a second – to breath in deeply and feel his heart batter against his chest. He'd never done anything like this before. It was complicated. It was dangerous. But he couldn't worry about that right now. Dean was in trouble and it was up to Sam to save him.

He gripped the book tightly and began reciting.

* * *

Dean felt himself pulled through the house with startling speed, and then flung down the stairs to the basement ground below. He gasped as he hit the ground, the impact shooting a spike of pain through his body that left him fighting to remain conscious, to ward off the fog threatening to consume him. Giving in would mean relief from the pain spiking through his battered body, but it would also leave him vulnerable to Brad's attack. So he lay there splayed and unmoving, using all his energy to resist the black creeping across his vision. 

Through the fog he could just make out Sam's voice in the distance, shouting his name, banging on something. And then silence. Dean still had enough sense, and enough trust in his brother, to realize that Sam was probably working on turning these bastards human. Now, Dean just had to avoid being killed until Sam pulled of the spell. _If _he pulled off the spell.

_Great_, Dean thought. _Way to be optimistic. _

Blinking rapidly, forcing away the fog, Dean clenched his jaw and gripped the dirt floor beneath him, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"Good. I thought you were dead. Would have loaded this gun for nothing then," a voice rang out.

Dean looked up in time to see Brad materialize in front of him. Dean's own shotgun in his hands.

"I suppose 'that's mine, give it back' is going to fall on dead ears," Dean sighed. "Pun intended," he added.

Brad lifted the gun and pressed the barrel against Dean's cheek. Dean gulped and struggled off the ground. The room was silent as the two stared at each other - Dean could practically hear his own heart beating. Though he stood completely still, his eyes locked with Brad's, feeling the gun pressed against his face, very aware that all Brad needed to do was squeeze that trigger and Dean was done.

Dean felt a temporary spark of relief when the barrel left his cheek, but it was quickly replaced with a weary fear when Brad shoved the barrel underneath Dean's chin, against his throat, and used it to force Dean backwards.

Holding his breath, Dean stumbled backwards as the cold barrel pressed against his throat, stopping when his back bumped into that bloodied wall.

"Bye, Dean," Brad whispered, his eyes glistening.

_No, no, no,_ Dean thought, his eyes widening when he realized that spell wasn't going to kick in on time.

"This is what they're all talking about, isn't it?" Dean practically yelled, desperate to distract Brad.

Brad tilted his head, a frown interrupting his distracted expression. He seemed to withdraw from whatever memory he'd run to in these last few seconds. He still held the gun tightly against Dean's throat, but his finger relaxed. "What?"

Dean gulped, knowing that he didn't have much time. _Come on, Sam…_

"Your neighbors. They say they hear strange noises at night. Is that you shooting people? How much people have you killed, huh? Is that how you get your rocks off, beating manners into a terrified town?"

Brad's eyes glowed menacingly. "They had to be taught! So no one else would get hurt!"

"Are you even listening to that logic!" Dean yelled incredulously.

"Enough talking!" Brad yelled back, pressing the gun tighter against Dean's flesh.

Dean's heart hammered and his mouth turned dry. "So you're just going to shoot me? Even though I'm not sorry. Are you giving up that easy? Is that all Bret meant to you?"

Dean shut his eyes, bracing himself for what came next. Brad swung the gun and Dean collapsed to the ground with a groan as it connected with his head. Tears stung his eyes but Dean willed them away and forced himself up, spitting out some more blood. This he could deal with. A few painkillers later on, he'd be fine. Anything to delay Brad pulling that trigger.

"Had enough?" Brad asked, kneeling in front of Dean, a triumphant smile on his face.

Dean took a shuddering breath and forced himself to grin back. "Why, you getting tired? Close to nap time?"

Brad snarled in rage and grabbed Dean by the collar of his shirt, pulling him up and slamming him back against the wall. "Enough of this!" he yelled, aiming the gun wildly and pulling the trigger.

Dean ducked just in time, falling to the ground and covering his head as the bullet exploded into the wall above him, raining down bits of concrete and leaving his ears ringing. Dean looked up at the hole in shock – that was almost him!

Brad cried out in frustration – the rage rippling off him with a supernatural force that slammed Dean back up against the wall. Dean flinched as Brad wrapped his hand around Dean's neck to prevent him moving and shoved the gun against Dean's temple. "No more games!"

"Bret!" Dean cried out, in one last attempt to prolong becoming just another splattered mark on a stained wall.

"What did you say?" Brad whispered, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why are you calling my brother?"

Dean's breath rattled in his lungs. He licked his split lips, eyes wide. He had to be careful with what he said next. Resist the wisecrack and go for the heart. It was his last chance. "Bret. He doesn't agree with what you're doing."

Brad pressed the gun tighter against Dean's head.

"Wait, wait!" Dean yelled. "You really sorry? You really want me to be sorry? Bring Bret down here. See what he has to say. Convince him that you're doing this for him. Cause', right now, I don't believe you. And I don't think he does either."

Dean held his breath, watching Brad closely. Brad blinked a few times, a scowl scrunching up his features. Finally, after what felt like hours to Dean, Brad moved the gun away and stepped back. Dean sagged a little in relief.

"Bret!" Brad called.

Bret materialized next to his brother. He glanced at Dean for a second before looking away.

"I told you I don't like seeing this," he said quietly. Dean strained to hear his voice. Maybe Bret could convince Brad to end this madness once and for all.

Brad stood quietly for a second. "Is it true what he said? You helped them find me?"

Bret looked down guiltily. "Yes," he whispered.

Dean watched the exchange carefully, wondering if they were distracted enough for him to attempt to reach the door. He slid quietly along the wall, but had to suck in his breath to keep from wincing out loud as his back passed over a protruding stone. There's no way he had the strength to get to the door without detection. Though he hated feeling this helpless, it was up to Sam and Bret now.

"Why?" Brad choked out.

"Because…" Bret faltered. "Because…They aren't helping you. You still feel…guilty. I don't want you to be. You didn't mean to kill me. I know that. You don't need to kill all these other people to prove it."

Brad smiled at this.

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I know," Brad said. "But I'm doing it to make sure what happened to us never happens again. Don't you see? I'm doing this to protect you, and people like you, from me, and people like him," he pointed at Dean, who couldn't help frowning indignantly.

"So this isn't making you miserable? Making you relive that moment you shot me?" Bret asked.

"No." Brad tilted his head and looked at his brother. "Please understand, Bret. This is the right thing to do. I'm protecting this town. I'm sorry I've kept you out of this whole thing. I thought it'd be better that way. But I guess that only hurt you more. From now on, we'll do this together."

Bret stared at his brother for a second, and then let a small smile creep onto his face, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. "Okay," Bret said.

_Wait. _"What!" Dean exclaimed, staring at Bret disbelievingly. "_That's_ what you helping us was about? Feeling left out!" Dean shook his head in disgust, in disbelief, in anger, and finally in defeat. He was exhausted.

Brad just smiled. And pointed the gun at Dean's head. "Bye, Dean."

Dean shut his eyes tightly and braced himself for the inevitable.

_I'm sorry, Sammy_…

* * *

_God, this was taking too long!_ But Sam ignored the panic and continued to recite, running his finger along the page as his mind hurtled from memory to memory, showing Sam how to properly pronounce all these words, to give the precise intonation, to pause for the right length of time. John had taught them well. 

Finally, he reached the end and snapped the book shut. He gazed around for a second, barely daring to breathe. Had it worked?

Suddenly a large surge of blinding light sprang up from the circle he'd been reciting in, pushing past – and through! – Sam with such force that it slammed him against the wall. Sam cried out, grabbing his stomach – it felt like he was on fire! Blinking past the pain, he watched as the light built up on itself until it was a large ball of sizzling, wavering, blue and silver energy, and then as it finally erupted, shooting out in all directions. Sam shielded his eyes. The door crashed open as the light surged through it and illuminated the whole house.

And then nothing. It vanished.

Sam removed his arm from his eyes cautiously. Everything looked like it was before the burst of light. Except, now the door was swinging on its hinges, no longer forced shut by any supernatural ability. That had to mean it had worked! Didn't it?

He looked down at his stomach. The pain had receded so fast he barely remembered feeling any.

"Note to self," he muttered. "Move out of the way."

Sam scrambled up and grabbed his duffle, running from the room.

* * *

Heart in his throat, Dean shut his eyes and waited to hear that deadly shot ring out. The last thing he'd ever hear. He prayed that Sam wouldn't have to find him with a bullet in his head. That those psychos would at least get rid of his body before Sam could see it. 

But the shot didn't go off, two cries rang out instead. Dean's eyes flew open, catching the tail end of a stream of light before it disappeared. He then stared in shock as Brad and Bret doubled over, dropping the gun, clutching their waists, faces scrunched up, fear and confusion battling in their eyes. He watched, transfixed, as colour swam into their gray skin, as they jerked and clutched at their chests, as the black clouds disappeared from their eyes leaving light brown ones behind.

A smile crept onto Dean's face. "Nice work, Sammy," he whispered.

Brad's head snapped up and he glared at Dean. One hand still clutching at his body as life surged back into it, he reached out with his other arm and tried to finish Dean off with his last bit of preternatural ability. Energy sparked from his fingers, but fizzled out almost instantly.

"Ha!" Dean shouted, laughing in relief. "Looks like your circuits have fried! Want to electrocute me, now? See that electrical box over there?" Dean pointed to the box sitting in the corner of the basement wall. "Go grab a handful of those wires. Bare hands." Dean grinned, malice sparkling in his eyes, "Trust me."

Brad ignored him, staring at his hands in disbelief. He straightened up and turned to Bret, whose stunned look matched his own.

"What did you do to us?" Brad whispered, turning back to Dean.

"Gave you a second lease on life," Dean grinned. "You can send me the thank you card later."

"No!" Brad yelled, scooping up his gun and again pointing it at Dean. "You ruined everything!"

"We're alive," Bret mumbled, staring down at himself, brow knitted tightly.

"Bit slow, aren't ya?" Dean muttered, but leaned back when Brad pointed the gun closer to Dean's chest.

"You still need to be stopped. Sam doesn't get it. That's why he did this. But he will."

Dean sighed heavily and, quicker that Brad could react given his newer, slower human reflexes, he grabbed the gun and twisted it out of Brad's hands, slamming it across his face. Brad stumbled backwards, his hand flying to his reddened cheek in shock.

"Man, enough with this psycho babble!" Dean yelled. From the side of his eye he saw Bret run at him. He smiled and waited for Bret to get closer, and then whipped around, grabbing Bret and using his momentum to flip him backwards. He winched as the move jarred his body, but smirked when he saw Bret lying stunned on the ground.

Brad practically growled, running back towards Dean, scooping up a plank of wood on his way. Dean ducked the swing and circled Brad cautiously. Even alive, Brad was a big guy. And crazy. Not a great combination from where Dean stood. Brad swung and managed to clip Dean's shoulder. "I will still kill you for Sam's sake," Brad yelled.

Dean regained his footing and used the pain still rippling through his body as fuel for his anger. That was it! He'd had enough.

He ripped the plank of wood from Brad's hands, chucking it aside and swinging his fist at Brad's face, a loud crack ringing through the basement as his fist connecting with Brad's nose. Brad stumbled backwards and fell to the ground, his hands flying to his nose as blood poured out. He looked as his hands in shock, at the blood that stained them red.

"That's enough talk about me and Sam, you got that?" Dean warned, his anger breaking through, surging to the surface. "Yes, we fight, we bitch. But you know what?"

Brad struggled up and circled Dean.

"It's what brothers do!" Dean grabbed Brad by the collar and pushed him carelessly aside. "We aren't sadistic, twisted, psycho bitches like you two!"

Brad cried out in frustration and grabbed for the gun again, aiming it at Dean, who, spurred on by a blinding irritation, grabbed the barrel and pulled it away, slamming it across Brad's face. Brad fell back against the wall, staring up at Dean with stunned hatred.

"You have to die," he spat.

"Man, killing me isn't going to solve your fucking problems," Dean spat back, sauntering up to Brad. "If killing your brother, and your family and _yourself _didn't work, what makes you think killing me is going to be any different? What makes me so goddamn special!"

Brad sprang up and charged at Dean, who deftly stepped aside and used the butt of his gun to knock Brad unconscious.

Dean tossed the gun aside and smirked at Brad's unmoving form. "That's gonna smart in the morning, bitch."

* * *

Sam ran to the basement door. He could hear sounds of struggle. He grabbed the handle and pulled - almost pulling his arm out of its socket in the process. He stared at the door in shock. 

"Their powers are meant to be gone," he muttered out loud.

"It's just locked," a voice said behind him. Sam whipped around to find that young girl from his vision standing close to the kitchen's wall, glancing at him shyly from beyond her curtain of blonde hair. Her eyes were rimmed red.

"Oh," Sam managed to say, feeling a bit stupid for not coming to that conclusion himself.

"Am I alive again?" she asked timidly. "I feel…different."

Sam smiled gently. "Yeah, you are."

She looked down and nodded, returning his small smile. "You made me alive again?"

"Yes," Sam said, not seeing any reason to lie. She'd been in his vision. She was obviously someone he had to help.

"To save your brother?" she asked again.

"Yes," Sam repeated, fear again clutching his chest as he listened to the scuffs and thuds coming from beyond the door. "Do you know where the key is?" he asked her urgently, but she wasn't listening, her eyes were looking at something far off.

"Brad killed my brother. And then he killed my parents. And then me," she gulped. She looked up at Sam with fearful eyes. "I forgot about that. All of that. I was so scared."

Sam's eyes clouded with sympathy, remembering the fear he felt in his vision. "And you ran for help but there was no one around, right?"

"Yeah," she whispered, looking at him with wide eyes. "He keeps saying he wont let anyone hurt us, but he hurt us. A long time ago. He's the bad man." Tears welled up in her eyes.

Sam chewed his lip and knelt down to her height. "I promise you I wont let him hurt you again. But he's going to hurt _my _brother if I can't open this door. Will you get me the key?" She just stared at him. "Please?" he added, his voice almost cracking.

She moved her head to the side, looking thoughtful, and then pushed away from the wall. She hurried to the kitchen counter and jumped up, grabbing a cookie jar. From within it she withdrew a key and handed it to Sam before running off.

"The key was in the cookie jar," Sam muttered. "Of course."

He unlocked the door and hurried downstairs, just in time to catch Dean knock out Brad with the barrel of his gun.

"Dean!" Sam called, a smile breaking onto his face, erasing the worry lines.

Using his arm to wipe the sweat and blood from his face, Dean turned and watched Sam descend the steps. "Hey, you finally decided to join the party?"

Sam smirked. "Looks like you had a hell of a time without me."

"Yeah, well -" Dean's words were cut short as his legs gave way under him.

"Woah!" Sam cried, catching Dean and pulling him up before he could hit the ground. He held Dean firmly until he felt Dean get control back over his body, then he cautiously let go.

"You okay, man?" Sam said, noting the new bruises forming under the dried blood on Dean's face. They really had to get Dean checked out - walking around with all those injuries couldn't be good. But at least he _was_ walking around. Today had been a close call.

Dean nodded, and then shook his head slightly to clear it. He turned to Sam, who was watching him carefully. "Better than a hangover, that's for sure" Dean said, grinning.

Sam smirked again. "I think you've had a bit too much excitement today, Dean," Sam chastised playfully. "Time to get you home to bed."

A smile pulled on Dean's lips. "Word of advice, little brother. Stick to your brooding thing. Leave the funny to me."

Sam snorted, unable to wipe the smile from his face that had erupted there the instant he saw that Dean hadn't been shot. That his brother was still alive.

"I'm alive," another voice added to the mix.

Sam whipped around to find Bret sitting in the basement corner, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, rocking back and forth.

"Bret?" Sam said.

"Yeah, he's been like that ever since I knocked him down and he saw Brad get his assed kicked."

"I'm alive," Bret repeated, staring at a random spot on the dirt ground.

"He's a bit slow," Dean explained with a shrug.

"Bret?" Sam repeated moving towards him. "Hey, it's okay."

Dean reached out his arm and stopped Sam. "Uh uh," he said, glaring at Bret wearily. "He's one of the bad guys."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Tried to kill me," Dean explained.

Sam looked at Dean in bewilderment. "Oh," he said. How could they have been led down so many wrong paths on this case? It was ridiculous.

"So, we call the police now. That was the plan, right?" Dean began to say, before he noticed Bret spring up and grab for the gun. Dean's eyes widened and he tried to get to it first, but he was too slow with his injuries. He watched in horror as Bret lifted the gun and pointed it at Sam. "Watch out!" Dean yelled. Sam jumped away from the line of fire, but cried out as a shot rang out and grazed his shoulder, forcing him to tilt backwards and lose his balance, falling to the ground in a spray of dirt and blood.

"Sam!" Dean shouted. It took him less than a second to survey the scene and decide that Sam's bag – and the gun inside it – was closer and more faster to get to than trying to tackle Bret. He dived for it and retrieved a pistol, lifting it and aiming at Bret.

"Put it down!" Dean shouted, gun held firmly and steadily in front of him. All the aches and pains in his body were instantly forgotten as he stared Bret down, finger ready at the trigger. "Put it down!" he yelled again.

Bret hesitated, watching Dean. Almost thoughtfully.

"I swear to god, you aim that at my brother again and I will kill you," Dean said – his voice rang out strong and calm. Sam sat still, a hand pressed against the shot wound, watching the situation with bated breath.

Bret breathed heavily, watching Dean. "You brought me back, you son of a bitch," he said, voice breaking and tears welling up in his eyes.

"Dude, whatever emotional baggage is weighing on you, I don't give a fuck. Put the gun down!"

Bret's faced began to turn red and scrunch up in distress. "What am I going to do?" he choked out. "We'll go to jail."

Dean's arms and eyes were straining with concentration. He risked a glance at Sam, making sure he was okay. There was a dark circle forming under Sam's fingers as they pressed against his shoulder, and he was watching Bret wearily.

Dean returned his focus to Bret, who was shaking and sweating. Bret's eyes slid to Brad lying unconscious on the floor, to the blood splattered wall, to Sam, and then finally to Dean – to the gun held firmly in his hands. He looked Dean straight in the eyes and smiled calmly, like he was about to share a secret. He then swung the gun towards Sam's chest.

A shot rang out.

Sam flinched, but opened his eyes when he heard a body hit the ground. And it wasn't his. There, in front of him, mere feet away, lay Bret. Dead. Eyes staring at the ceiling, that chilling smile still on his lips. A small, red circle sitting right over his heart.

Sam gasped and looked over at Dean, who was still standing with the gun outstretched. He was staring at Bret's body with wide, shocked eyes. His eyes then slid down to the smoking gun in his hands, and Sam swore he caught a shudder run through Dean's body. But Dean seemed to mentally shake himself, quickly sheaving the gun in his waistband and hurrying towards Sam.

He put an arm around Sam's shoulders, and helped lift him up. "You're okay, I got you," he said. Sam winced as his shoulder stung with the movement.

"Let me see," Dean said, gently prying away Sam's fingers. Sam's shirt had darkened with blood, but it was clearly only a graze. "Just a scratch."

Dean grinned when Sam looked at him incredulously. But it was a faint grin. Sam caught Dean's eyes again slide towards Bret's body.

"You had to," Sam said softly.

Dean tore his eyes away and ripped some cloth from his outer shirt – it was already all torn to hell, unsalvageable. He wrapped it around Sam's shoulder carefully. "Guess your vision was right after all," Dean said as he wrapped Sam's shoulder, avoiding Sam's gaze. "I am a killer. You should've put a bet on it, I could've owed you big bucks."

"Dean," Sam said, pulling away so that he could look at Dean properly. "One, he's only been alive for 20 minutes. _Brad _was the one who really killed him. Two, he would've killed me if you hadn't shot him. He left you no choice, Dean."

Dean smiled. "Three, this whole thing couldn't end until I saved your ass from something. It's how it works."

Sam chuckled, taking a half-hearted swing at his brother.

Dean was silently grateful that Sam's shoulder didn't seem to be bothering him too much. "Time to call the cops, ey? Let them get off their asses and handle something for once."

Sam's eyes involuntarily slid to Bret's body. He sighed. "I don't know what we can tell them," he admitted. He'd been so sure that they had to hand this one over to the police once he turned the Parkers human again. But, now…he wasn't so sure. "How do we explain…him," Sam said gesturing at the body.

"We don't," Dean said matter-o-factly. "We leave an anonymous call, explaining about the murders that they committed – leaving out a few details, of course – and skidattle out of here. We've done our part, time to hit the road."

Sam couldn't help snorting. He nodded his head. "Trust you to be a fan of Ockham's Razor – the simplest choice is always the best one."

Dean stared at Sam blankly. "What the hell you talking about, man?"

"Never mind," Sam brushed off.

"Okay, college boy, since you know all the big words, you go find a phone, I'll stay down here."

Sam hesitated, his eyes again sliding to Bret's motionless body. "Are you sure?"

Dean followed Sam's gaze and sighed. "Look, I throw a good punch, I do, but it wont keep ol' Brad down forever. I gotta tie him up before the cops show. Can you do it with your shoulder? No. And the sooner you call them the faster we can get out of this hell hole. Okay, dingbat?"

Sam frowned at the random insult, but nodded his head. Hugging his arm tightly to his body, he quickly ran up the stairs and out of the room.

When the old door crept shut behind Sam, Dean found himself alone with two motionless bodies – one staring at the ceiling with large, brown eyes, and that chilling smile forever forged onto his face. The silence in the room was so thick, and so unsettling, that Dean began tapping his fingers absently against his leg, just to make some noise.

Looking around the bloodstained room, he saw the rope that had bound him earlier lying in a corner. He moved to grab it but stopped short once he passed Bret's body. Looking up quickly to make sure Sam hadn't returned, Dean slowly knelt beside Bret. A shudder escaped through his body as he looked at the face that had already turned slightly blue. He looked so young. Dean's eyes slid towards the hole in his chest. He sighed. "Fuck you and your screwed up family," he whispered. "You made me choose between you and my brother. This couldn't have ended any other way."

Dean got up angrily, but then sighed again and let the anger fade. Instead, he knelt back down and slid his hand over Bret's eyes, closing them.

He then went to grab the rope. Stretching it out to test the length, he saw that it wouldn't be enough. He began digging around the mess in the back for more.

He didn't notice Brad's fingers twitch. He didn't notice Brad slowly raise his head and freeze when he saw his brother's body. He didn't notice Brad reach for the discarded shotgun.

* * *

_Where is the stupid phone, _Sam thought, annoyed that he'd left his behind. "In a family as weird as this, it could be in the fridge," he muttered, at the same time realizing that talking to himself was slowly becoming a habit. Something that was sure to land him in the loony bin if he wasn't careful. "Dean would make sure of it," he muttered to himself again. 

But before Sam could think or say anything else, he gasped and fell back against a table as another vision ripped through his head. No, not another one. The same one! Dean holding that gun over Bret's body…wait…no. This time Sam was able to hold onto more of the vision, to see more. It wasn't just fleeting feelings this time. Sam watched as the man holding the gun limp in his fingers turned his face towards Sam. It was Brad! Not Dean! Then this too must have been a vision of what had happened 16 years ago. No…then why had Sam felt Dean's energy so strongly? The vision swung to the body lying bloodied and unmoving on the dirt floor and gave Sam his answer. Sam's heart froze as a terrifying dread spiked through him. It was Dean.

Sam's eyes flew open. _No, no, no, no, no. _Pushing himself away from the table, his eyes turning towards the basement, his feet skidding and sliding across the floor in his haste, Sam ran back to the basement door. His heart was beating so loudly it became all he could hear. A foreboding rhythm that beat in tune with his steps, blocking out any other sound, beating into his head, forcing to the fore memory after memory of his brother. Growing up, fighting, yesterday, today. Dean. Beat after beat.

Sam finally reached the door, skidding against it in his haste, ripping it open with shaking hands, he bounded inside with startling speed and was half way down the stairs before he looked up. And what he saw forced the world to fall away so all that was left was this image of Dean backed up against the red wall, terror in his eyes, as Brad's finger pulled the trigger. The shot rang out. Loud and deadly and reverberated in Sam's skull as he stood frozen. It rang out, and Sam could only watch in horror as Dean flew backwards, blood spraying out from his chest and his back, splattering against the stained wall, adding a new glistening pattern to the bloody collage.

"No!" Sam cried out, choking on unshed tears. He forced his legs to move and ran the rest of the way down the stairs, eyes locked on his brother as Dean's hands reached for his chest and as he stared at the blood running through his fingers in stunned silence.

Brad turned to look at Sam, his eyes wild. He smiled before lifting the gun and again aiming it at Dean.

"No!" Sam cried again, but his plea was lost in the blast of another shot exploding from Dean's own shotgun, connecting with Dean's stomach in another spray of blood that hit Sam in the face and dripped from his arm.

Dean's hunched form flew up against the wall from the impact. Brad smiled and backed off, dirt-streaked and blood stained, the gun hanging limply from his fingers.Sam dropped to his knees, the shock and horror overwhelming him as he watched his brother slide down the wall, leaving a trail of glistening blood behind.

* * *

TBC… 


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Okay, last chapters are a bitch, I've discovered. But here it is!

**Chapter 10**

Sam couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he could do was stare at his brother as the red circle widened on his shirt, as the red splatters glistened on the wall, as the red blood ran through Dean's fingers as he pressed them against his own chest and stomach, trying to stop the flow, to stop the life ebbing out of him. Red blood that was dripping from Sam's arm and face.

Like in a dream, and through a thick haze that was preventing Sam from feeling his body or hearing anything other than his brother's choked gargles, Sam forced himself off the ground and staggered towards Dean, dropping by his side, eyes locked on the fountain of red coursing over Dean's shaking fingers.

A laugh burst into Sam's horrified stupor, bringing Sam crashing back into reality. He blinked hard to find Dean slumped against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him, breath shooting out in rapid gasps, sweat glistening on his face, eyes staring at his body in shock.

"Fuck," Dean choked out, unshed tears laced through his voice, a line of blood running from his mouth unnoticed. "Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, Sammy."

Another laugh. On hearing it, Sam's panic and horror wound up into a tight, unforgiving ball of rage and Sam swung around, diving for Brad, ripping the gun from his hands and punching him across the face so hard that Brad fell with a grunt, landing flat on his back and staring up at Sam with wide eyes as Sam slammed his fist back into Brad's face. Brad's head whipped to the side and Sam hit him again. And again. Splitting his lip, splitting the skin on his cheek, shattering his nose with a loud crack. Brad's eyelids fluttered and he sunk into unconsciousness. Sam gripped the front of Brad's shirt tightly, angry tears welling up in his eyes. He pulled back his arm, his hand balled up into a tight fist. But hesitated.

"Sammy," Dean's voice – quiet, faded – called from behind him. "Don't."

Upon hearing his brother's voice, the angry tears turned into ones of distress and rolled down his cheeks. Sam unfurled his fist and pushed Brad away, pushing away the tears just as roughly.

He grabbed the gun and threw it into the room's furthest corner and quickly staggered back towards Dean, dropping by his side. "Oh God…" he gasped, seeing how much blood was flowing out from the holes ravaging his brother's torso. He hastily took off his outer shirt and bundled it into a ball, pressing it tightly against Dean's stomach and chest after gently, if shakily, prying away Dean's blood-soaked fingers to find the entry wounds hiding beneath this pool of red. Such small holes, so much blood. Dean gasped as the shirt pressed into him, his head lolling back, his face growing more ashen, more blood running from his mouth. The shirt's colour instantly began to fade to a dark red.

Sam froze, not knowing what to do. He didn't want to hurt Dean more, but he had to stop the bleeding.

"Shh, it's okay," Sam choked out, trying to keep his voice strong, trying to keep the tears from spilling over, trying to reassure his brother as he pressed down tighter on the cloth and as the cloth grew heavier as it soaked up a seemingly unending stream of blood. But he couldn't keep the tremor from his voice, or the worried frown from overpowering his smile. The panic was threatening to engulf him. "It's not that bad. You'll be fine."

Dean's body slumped further down the wall, his shivering increasing, his face growing more pale as the life flowed out with his blood. He rolled his head towards Sam, his eyes boring into his brother's. They were rimmed red from the shock and the pain, but all Sam could focus on was the regret and sorrow that shone out of them.

"You've always been a bad liar, Sammy," he laughed softly, the weak laugh turning into a coughing fit. Scrunching up his forehead with effort, his breathing becoming more labored, Dean haltingly reached up and grasped the front of Sam's shirt.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, wincing and arching his back as he choked on his words, on his own blood. But he forced his eyes back open, his fingers frantically clawing Sam's chest as he struggled to keep breathing and keep talking. His lips, his tongue, his teeth all tasted coppery, and his head was light and he could no longer feel anything but the burning in his stomach and the sweat running down his face, but he forced himself to keep breathing, to keep talking. "I really fucked things up," he choked out, a sob escaping unbidden. "I shouldn't have drawn you back. And...and now I'm leaving you here."

Sam's face crumbled, and his body felt like it was collapsing in on itself from the stress and grief, but he forced himself to gulp in the stale air and keep it together, to keep Dean from seeing how worried he was. He had to get Dean to hold on until he could get help. He had to. "No, Dean, I don't care about that. Just…" he faltered, his lips quaking as he tried to force them into a smile. "Just…don't die, okay?"

Dean's hand tightened around Sam's shirt as he winced again, his breath stopping completely for a second.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his stomach knotting in fear. He grabbed Dean's face. "Dean!"

Dean's eyelids fluttered back open and a shaky breath passed his split lips. But his eyes looked glossy and weren't focusing. And his hand had fallen from Sam's shirt.

"No, no, no, no." Sam chanted the word, over and over, frantically, putting his arm quickly around Dean's shoulders and lifting him up slightly, trying to give his lungs more room to breath. "Dean!" he shouted again. No, this couldn't be happening. He was not about to lose his brother. Dean was all he had left.

Dean's lips moved slightly and his eyes lifted up to towards Sam's, though the rest of him was still and pale and had stopped shivering, like it had finally given up and was now just waiting for Dean to follow.

Sam grabbed Dean's hands, lacing his fingers through them and held them tightly, his terror increasing when he felt no pressure pressing back. Dean's lips moved a few times, but no sound came out, except for a few low chokes and gasps. And even they were retreating.

"Hey, hey," Sam said gently. "It's okay. Don't talk." Sam looked around the basement, his eyes searching frantically. He had to get to a phone. He had to call help. But how could he just leave Dean down here?

"Dean," Sam said, his attention quickly returning to his brother. He rubbed Dean's arms comfortingly, forcing a wavering smile onto his face. "I have to go get help. I have to leave you here for a second."

Dean's eyes widened slightly and his arms tensed. He grabbed Sam's hand with his last bit of energy, silently begging him not to leave. He needed his baby brother with him. He didn't want to die alone.

Sam almost crumbled again at the weak touch. But he forced his grief down, instead gripping Dean's hand tightly and wrapped his other one around Dean's head, drawing his own closer until their foreheads touched. "I have to, Dean," he whispered. "I have to get you help. I have to…But, please, just promise me you'll still be here when I get back. I can't…Just promise me, okay?"

Sam watched his brother's ashen face for a moment before gently prying Dean's fingers from his own, his heart breaking as he did. But he told himself he was just going upstairs to grab the phone. Dean would still be here, alive, when he got back. In this fucking basement. In this fucking house. With those two fucking bodies – one dead, one beaten unconscious. He hated this house – he hated that he had to leave his dying – no! not dying! Just…hurt – brother alone to find a phone. And he hated them more. For doing this to Dean. To him.

Sam placed Dean's hand down gently. "I'll be right back," he promised, quickly jumping up.

"I…"

Sam turned back at the sound of his brother's voice, kneeling back down. "Shh," he said, his tongue and throat too heavy for him to say anything else. "I'll be right back, okay? I have to get you help."

"I can't," Dean managed to say in barely a whisper, his eyes still boring into Sam's. They looked sadder, and calmer, than Sam had ever seen them. "Promise that. I can't. I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry…"

A numbness crept up Sam's spine at those words, and the basement disappeared, the house disappeared, those bodies disappeared. All that was left was him and his older brother. And Dean was fading. And then there'd just be him.

"No," Sam said, letting his frustration overpower his grief. He grabbed onto Dean's shoulders firmly. "You are _not _going to die, Dean. You hear me? I won't let you. This is _not _how you go. Not because of some…" he gulped, feeling the tears sting his eyes, but he blinked them back. "…of some fucking bullets and a fucking kid and a fucking vision that I got wrong! We still gotta…" he breathed deeply, looking down and again choking back the tears threatening to overwhelm him. There was no time for that! "…gotta find mum's killer. And find Dad. And…and…just…And I'll give the Impala to the impound lot if you dare leave, Dean. I mean it. This isn't how you go!"

A ghost of a smile brushed Dean's lips, and a few tears slid down his cheeks, turned pink by the time they slid off his face from all the dried blood. Sam's heart sank when he saw them, but after a moment Dean nodded faintly. "Okay," he mouthed, the words dieing before they left his lips.

Sam watched Dean for a second longer, then squeezed his hand tightly and lent forward, kissing him on his head before hurrying up the stairs.

Dean watched him leave, the faint smile fading from his lips. He watched the door to the basement shut. He listened to his breathing slow down in the quiet room. Listened to his heart beat faintly somewhere in the distance. Without feeling it, without knowing how, he turned his head and looked at the two bodies in front of him. One with a hole over his heart, the other bloodied and beaten. He looked back to the closed basement door. And waited for Sam to return, listening to his breathing further slow down, listening to his heartbeat retreat further into the distance, listening for the sound of Sam's footsteps returning.

* * *

Sam rummaged around the kitchen, unable to find the phone. He'd looked in every obvious place and was now tearing up the rooms, lifting up papers, slamming open drawers.

"Where is the fucking phone!" he yelled out loud, chucking a saltshaker across the room in frustration. It hit the window and shattered it, glass raining everywhere and skidding across the floor. Sam ran his hands through his hair in frustration. And in panic. Dean didn't have much time!

He heard someone gasp behind him. Sam whipped around to find that little girl standing there, phone pressed tightly against her chest. She hesitantly held it out to him. "We keep it upstairs," she explained, still watching him carefully.

"Thanks," Sam said numbly, reaching for it.

"I already called the ambulance," she said, though she mispronounced 'ambulance'.

Sam looked at her, surprised.

"For your brother. I heard Brad…shoot him. They said they're on their way. To…to keep the shots covered. I didn't know where, or if…um," she looked away shyly. "So…they said they'll come quick."

Sam nodded numbly. "Thank you," he said again, before he had to press his palms to his eyes as the tears finally broke loose. He bent over for a second and let the tears come, let the pain and fear wash through him, shattering into his confidence, into his hope, into his thoughts. "It's my fault," Sam choked out, not knowing why he was telling this frightened girl, just knowing he had to tell someone. "I had that vision to protect, Dean. Not to accuse him and lead him right to his killer's hands!" He let the hot tears squeeze through his fingers and slide down his face. But just for a moment. Just so they would stop trying to suffocate him. Then he straightened up, took in a shuddering breath and ran back to his brother.

He pulled the door open with his good arm and rushed down the stairs. Dean lay unmoving against the wall, surrounding by a pool of his own blood. He didn't give any indication that he'd heard Sam return.

"Dean?" Sam asked, quickly kneeling beside him. He didn't move, didn't respond. Sam watched Dean's still face with a growing dread, fear spiking through his heart. Sam gently placed a hand on each side of Dean's face. "Dean? Come on, man, open your eyes." His skin was cold and clammy. "Dean?" Sam froze, his eyes widening, his mouth sliding open. "Dean?" he whispered. _Oh god, no…_

Choking on his own grief, Sam's face crumbled as he felt his cheeks grow wet, as he felt his lips taste salt, and as he wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, hugging him tightly. He could feel Dean's cold skin, feel the blood from Dean's wounds seeping into his own clothes, feel his tears drop from his cheeks and splatter onto Dean's stained shirt, in an imitation of the blood that was still dripping from the stained wall and splattering onto the ground.

"No," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please, god, no. Please! Dean…Please! Don't do this!" His voice broke and the tears slid freely down his cheeks as he sat there, tightly holding his limp brother, refusing to let him go. "I'm sorry, Dean, god, I'm so sorry. But don't leave me. You have to fight, Dean. You have to hold on. The monsters die, not the heroes."

Sam leant back and through blurry eyes, watched Dean's face, looking for any small sign that there was still life fighting inside his brother. _Come on, Dean…_Just one joke, one wisecrack, one grin. He lent his ear against Dean's mouth and listened for breath, prayed for breath. "No!" he shouted, hugging Dean tightly again, cradling Dean's head, his body shaking and making it difficult to breathe, to see, to hear.

Sam jumped as a firm hand touched his shoulder. He turned to find a group of paramedics. They quickly surrounding his brother, unpacking their bags, pulling out a range of instruments, one heading for the other bodies. They kept shooting looks at the red wall.

"You have to move out of the way, son," one of the men said. Sam nodded and scooted backwards until his back bumped into the stairs. "Do you know what happened here?" the same man asked as his colleagues cut open Dean's shirt and quickly wiped away the blood. Sam tried to answer, he really did, but he'd forgotten how to form words. "The young girl said he's your brother. Is that true?" the man asked, more gently. Sam's eyes slid back towards the bloodied body lying limply as these strangers knelt over him, examining him, analysing him with cold words. His clothes were coloured a dark red. His face was bruised, his lips split, his hair matted. He wasn't moving, wasn't telling these strangers to back off, wasn't offering Sam a reassuring arch of his eyebrow. Was this his brother?

"Son?" the man asked again.

Sam nodded numbly. Yes, he was.

"Okay," the man said, hurrying to help the one examining the other two bodies.

"This one's dead. Gunshot wound to the heart. This one here may have a mild case of head trauma, but he's alive. Strong pulse."

But their words were getting stuck in the thick haze that had again surrounded Sam, that was squeezing in on his vision so that all he could see was his brother's limp form.

"A pulse."

What? Sam's heart fluttered back into life as he looked up hopefully. Had he heard that right? "He's still alive?" Sam asked, his voice sounding small and tinny, and he didn't know if it was because of that haze smothering his senses or because his battle between fear and grief had finally reached his throat.

"Barely, but he's hanging in there. We gotta get him into surgery. You riding with him?"

Sam's eyes lit up and he forced himself out from the haze. "Yes," he answered quickly, springing up.

The next few hours were a blur. Of wailing sirens, of wheeling gurneys, of firing questions, and of red. Always of red. The next thing Sam knew, he was sitting in a waiting room, hunched over, his shoulder patched up, his head resting on his hands. Dean had been in surgery for four hours now. Four hours!

Sam leant back in his chair and for the next hour just watched the world pass in front of him – the nurses scuttle by, the doctors saunter past, clipboard in their hands, stopping to talk to this relative, that relative. Good news, bad news. People holding steaming coffee mugs, people yelling at their children to behave. Just watched.

Sam suddenly hopped up and strode into the men's room, barging into a free cubicle and slamming the door shut. He couldn't be out there. Out there in a world that still moved, still lived, even though Dean was locked away in surgery, and might not live, might never move. Sam's face felt hot and clammy, his shoulder pulsated a continual ache, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He lent his arm against the cubicle wall and rested his head against it, breathing in deeply.

God…how could he have let this happen. He forced Dean to go to that town, to follow that mystery. When, all along, Dean was the one he was meant to be saving!

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes, but he roughly wiped them away and kicked the wall angrily instead. Over and over, until his energy finally fled and Sam slid down against the dented wall instead, too drained to do anything other than stare numbly at the red walls surrounding him.

Red. Always red. So much red. Sam looked down at himself absently – he was still covered in Dean's blood. He forced himself up and opened the door, stepping up to the sink and turning on the water. Grabbing a bar of soap he began scrubbing the blood off his arms and hands, still staring numbly as the blood swirled around the sink, turning pink as it fled down the drain.

From behind him, one of the cubicle doors quickly opened and a middle-aged man hesitantly stepped out, looking at Sam fearfully. He hurried to the sink furthest from Sam and washed his hands faster than Sam had ever seen anyone manage.

"Sorry," Sam said, realizing he'd spooked the man with his outburst. "Bad day."

The man looked Sam over, at the blood splattering his clothing and the dirt running across his face and hair. "I can see that, pal," he said before hurrying out of the bathroom.

* * *

His heart beat rhythmically, vibrating into his ears. His breath came easier, filling out his lungs without the accompanying bursts of pain. Though, he felt something heavy on his stomach and on his chest. The cloth must have drenched up most of his blood by now and was sitting on top of him, useless. His mouth felt dry, his throat parched. There was something digging into his arm. But he ignored all that and listened for Sam's footsteps. Listened for Sam to return. His ears pricked up when he heard footsteps and he forced his eyelids open. 

A small gasp escaped his lips when instead of the old basement - the blood-splattered walls, the dirt floor - Dean found himself staring at a world of white – white floors, white wall, white bed.

"Dean?" Sam's voice asked from just beyond Dean's bed.

Dean lifted up his head a little to find Sam hurrying into the room, balancing a Styrofoam coffee cup, a newspaper and a plate of food in his arms. He put them all down hastily, grabbing the cup as it tried to tip over. Dean watched, a growing amusement cutting through his confusion as the hot coffee spilt over the rim and lapped onto Sam's fingers as he quickly pulled his hand back, shaking off the coffee and grabbing the rolled up newspaper before it rolled off the small table.

"Smooth," Dean teased, surprised by how gravelly his voice sounded. And how bleary his vision was.

Sam turned back to Dean, a large smile breaking onto his face. "Hey, you're awake," he said softly, pulling up a chair. "How you feeling?"

"Uh, confused," Dean answered honestly, turning his head to take in the room. He was obviously lying in a hospital bed, and Sam had obviously been stationed by him for a while now.

"Where'd the basement go?" he asked, trying to sit up but gasping as his stomach tightened and something pulled at his arm.

"Hey, hey," Sam said, quickly jumping up and pushing Dean back down. "Easy, you're all hooked up to IV drips and monitors. And you don't want to tear your stitches." Sam laughed suddenly. "Less than five minutes awake and you already want to go bounding off. Haven't you ever heard of R and R?"

Dean snorted softly, lying back down and wincing at the flare that had erupted in his stomach and chest, but the pain already began to retreat. "Yeah, but it involves beer, a game, and maybe a blonde. Not scratchy sheets and IV drips," he said, glaring at the tube in his arm accusingly.

Dean then took a closer look at his brother, remembering that he'd been shot in the arm. Dark circles framed his eyes and his hair was more tussled than usual, but at least his shoulder looked okay. Though Dean noted the way Sam held his arm close to his body.

"What?" Sam smiled, noticing Dean staring.

"You look like shit," Dean said.

"Thanks, maybe I should go get you a mirror," Sam scoffed. But he was still smiling with that big, goofy grin.

"You know if the wind changes, your face will freeze like that," Dean pointed out.

Sam raised his eyebrows, amused. "Like what?"

"That," Dean elaborated. "All smiling and goofy looking." He held out his finger – the one not attached to any tube or wires. "_More_ goofy looking," he corrected.

Sam chuckled. But Dean noticed his brother breathe in deeply, the relief practically shining from his face.

Dean swallowed, ignoring how dry his throat felt.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, his memory flashing back to the loud shots, the sharp pain, the way his body had flown backwards without his consent. He rubbed his fingers together under the sheets, remembering how slick his fingers had felt as he tried to hold his own blood in.

Sam sighed, his smile fading at the edges. God, he looked tired.

"You…you almost died, Dean. If the paramedics hadn't come when they did…" he trailed off.

Dean watched as Sam looked away, playing with his own fingers. Dean nodded. "How long have I been out for?" he asked after a pause.

Sam gave a tight smile. "Three days now. You were in surgery for six hours. You lost a lot of blood but…You were lucky," he said, not wanting to go into the details, to talk about how one bullet had grazed his lung and the other punctured into his stomach, wreaking havoc. He'd been lucky. Or that's what the doctors had said. Sam wouldn't call it luck. Lucky would be avoiding getting shot twice. Lucky would be avoiding a psycho ghost who thought killing Dean was the right thing to do.

"Lucky," Sam repeated. He'd leave it at that.

Sam looked up to find Dean's eyes boring into his, reminding him of that basement, of all that blood, of Dean's eyes boring into his with that sad, resigned look.

"Your shoulder okay?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head at this. Trust Dean to worry about him when Dean was lying there attached to numerous wires, had a black and blue face, and had just barely survived after being shot twice. "Only a scratch," he reassured.

"What's the story with the B-Brothers? What happened there?"

Sam shook his head again and grinned. "You sure you want to play 20 questions so soon after waking up?"

Dean shrugged, but winced as the movement again pulled at his stitches. "First, curiosity never hurt anyone but some cat somewhere. Secondly, remind me not to move."

Sam instantly sat up straighter, his eyes traveling to Dean's wrapped body. "Do you need me to get a nurse?" he asked, jumping up.

"Woah," Dean said, "calm down, tiger, I'm fine." Though he scrunched up his forehead in thought and then turned back to Sam.

"Dean?" Sam prompted, worried that Dean might have pulled something.

"Unless she's the hot candy striper kind who finds broken guys irresistible. Then yes, Sam, I do need that nurse."

Sam snorted and sat back down. "Idiot."

Dean raised his eyes innocently. "What?"

Sam just shook his head, but his lips pulled themselves back into a smile. He was so relieved that Dean was okay right now, that Dean could say or do just about anything and Sam wouldn't get annoyed or angry. Of course, he'd be damned if he'd let Dean know that.

"So? Basement. Weirdo brothers. Years of mayhem. What happened?" Dean prodded.

Sam leant back in his chair. "Well, I told the police that I'd been kidnapped by Brad and Bret, that I'd called you and you'd driven straight over, which explains the Impala in the driveway -"

"Oh my god, my car!" Dean interrupted. "You didn't have it impounded, did you?"

Sam laughed. "_That's _what you're worried about? Your car?" He scoffed. "It's fine."

Dean sighed in relief. "There is a god. And he's smiling over you, Sammy, 'cause, hoo-boy, if you'd had my car impounded like you threatened, well, I'd have to kick your ass."

Sam raised his eyebrow at this, looking pointedly at Dean's wrapped body.

Dean nodded. "Okay," he acknowledged, "I'd have to wait a few days, possibly a few weeks, but I'd get to it eventually. Now, dude, continue, what happened after that? Geez, your stories take longer to tell than a daytime soap."

A comeback on the tip of his tongue, Dean having made it far too easy, Sam decided to swallow it, so relieved that Dean seemed to be okay that he didn't have the heart to rib him back. Not yet. He was finding it difficult to see past the giant blue and black bruise running from beneath Dean's hairline and across his cheekbone; or past the drying splits on his lips, the large blue bruise on his chin, the numerous other bruises and cuts marring his face, and the bandage wrapped around his head.

"Anyway," Sam continued, averting his gaze from the injuries – and from the memories that came attached to each one. "Apparently Cindy, the little Parker girl, told the police that Brad shot Bret and then you. Which is pretty much the truth – he was the one who originally killed Bret."

Dean smiled a little at this. "And that girl was so damn creepy – I was sure she'd end up in our bad guy list."

Sam shrugged. "I guess with kids, they're more prone to tell what they see the truth is than come up with elaborate cover-stories."

"Unless cookies are involved," Dean corrected.

Sam smirked. "Pessimistic until the end."

"Keeep going," Dean rolled his eyes. "How the hell did the cops explain the Parkers still being alive."

Sam's smirked deepened. "Apparently these two are distant relatives. Or so that's what the police are saying. That basement, with all the blood evidence, and Cindy's statements, and the bodies the police found buried in the back, is enough to get Brad locked up. He's being put in the psych ward."

"Why didn't the town try to cover it up like all the other murders?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe us surviving got rid of some of their fear. And seeing that the police could build an actual, half-reasonable story to explain some of the later murders gave them a further reason to forget that fear, to shake off the last 16 years now that there's someone taking responsibility for it all?"

Dean shook his head, his eyes clouding over slightly as the exhaustion finally began to hit him. And the realization that this was all finally over. "Small towns," he mumbled in disgust, shutting his eyes for a second.

"Dean?" Sam's hesitant voice broke into the slumber that had begun to settle into Dean's head, to creep in there without him noticing.

"Yeah?" he answered, eyes still closed. He heard Sam sigh, and opened one eye, peering at Sam's lined face.

"I'm…" Sam hesitated, looking down at his hands. "I'm really sorry. About, you know, getting my vision wrong, I don't know how…" he paused to suck in some air. "It's my fault you got so hurt."

"Sam," Dean tried to interject, opening both eyes and carefully lifting himself up. But Sam cut him off.

"Brad…he…He was latching onto those memories from the asylum. He thought I…you know. But I don't. He just thought I did. But I should've known you were the one my vision was telling me to protect. Anyway," he forced a laugh, still not looking at Dean. "What I'm trying to say is…I'm sorry."

Dean stared at Sam for a second, at how he was uncomfortably tugging at his fingers. "Dude!" Dean finally said, shrugging as much as his stitched up body allowed. "How the fuck were you meant to know that the ghost we thought was Bret would end up being Brad, and then that Jamie would also end up being Brad, and that his whole family would end up being dead, but, you know, only half dead as it turned out, and that Brad would lead me to his house, that we'd Lazarus his ass, and that Bret would turn against us, that he'd take a suicidal stance against you, that Brad would regain consciousness just in time to see his suicidally dead brother and get to the gun a second before I got to the rope to tie him up." Dean took a second to get his breath back. "Yeah, sure, you could've predicted all that and stopped me getting shot." Dean made an incredulous face. "Seriously, dude, no amount of therapy is going to help with that guilt complex if you really blame yourself for all that. And I sure aint paying for no shrink, either."

"But Brad targeted you because he thought I hated you. I don't," Sam said firmly. He needed Dean to know this. Whatever other misunderstandings existed between them, would always exist between them like they did any brothers, he didn't want Dean to harbor any doubts about this. This one thing.

Dean smiled. "I know that, Sammy." His smile turned into his usual grin. "What the hell is there to hate about me? I'm as lovable as a teddy bear."

Sam snorted.

Dean stared at his brother for another second. "Sammy," Dean said, leaning closer to him, addressing him like he was about to impart a great lesson. "While I was, you know, resting from our latest adventure, I had time to think. And I realized something."

Sam chuckled. "What was that?"

"Those Parkers were screwed up."

"Very insightful," Sam teased, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up for a second," Dean said. "Those brothers were nuts. You can't kill someone and say you still love them. Oops, shot you in the head, don't take it too hard. I would never hurt you – unless you wrecked my car. You would never hurt me – unless possessed by a psychotic doctor. Fuck what the B-Brothers think."

Sam nodded, fidgeting with the corner of Dean's sheet as he let those words sink in. He grinned and looked up at. "I love you too, Dean," he said.

Dean rolled his eyes and snatched the sheet from Sam's hands. "Oh god, I forgot you like those Dr Phil moments."

Sam laughed. "Okay, I'll rephrase that: So, we're good then?"

Dean nodded. "We're always good."

"Is this the part where we knock fists in a very manly way, grunt, and change the topic to tools or something?"

A laugh escaped Dean's throat. "Shut up," he said. "And pass me some water, fidgety."

"And if a town that killed over bad manners didn't teach you, I'm not even going to try to get a 'please' out of you," Sam sighed, pouring Dean a glass of water and passing it to him. Dean sipped some slowly, savoring the feeling of the cool liquid passing over his dry throat. God, he was never going to take drinking or breathing for granted again.

"Speaking of psycho towns. We should visit Brad."

"What? Why?" Sam said, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Yeah…" Dean mused, looking thoughtful. "We definitely should. Warn him about all the fun activities inmates find to do with new cellies."

"You do realize he'll be put in a psych ward – no real contact with the big bad types."

Dean grinned, a spark shining in his eyes. "I know that. And you know that. But does he?"

Sam laughed. "We'll go as soon as you're out of here."

* * *

The young doctor checked his clipboard to see what patient he was checking in on next: Dean Winchester. He strolled into the room and found the young man propped up on his pillows talking to his brother. Almost simultaneously, they both turned to look at him the moment his foot stepped into the room.

"Ah, you're awake I see," he said, smiling professionally. He turned to the patient's brother. "I told you it would only be a matter of time. There was no need to panic," he said absently, automatically smiling again while flipping through the pages on his chart. He missed the amused look Dean shot Sam as Sam slightly clenched his jaw and pretended to ignore Dean's look.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor said, tucking the clipboard under his arm and walking up to Dean.

Dean shrugged. "Pretty good, considering." Sam shot him a glance and smiled slightly.

The doctor nodded. "We'll be keeping you here for a few days, monitoring your progress. You should really try to get some rest. Not move so much. Your body's been through a lot."

Sam grabbed the glass of water from Dean's hands, heeding the doctor's comments immediately. Dean glared at him before turning back to the doctor. "No offense, Doc, but I feel fine." He grinned. "I guess I heal faster than most."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Or is more arrogant than most." But he was smiling.

"Well, at the moment we've got you on a lot of pain meds," the doctor said. "You're pretty doped up, but you'll feel all this movement by the morning."

"Oh," Dean said, instantly lying back down. Sam laughed. "It's his fault," Dean said, motioning towards Sam. "Won't stop yapping."

Sam turned to Dean with raised eyebrows. "Oh, yeah, blame the one who's been trying to tell you to get some rest for an hour now."

"See, there he goes with that yapping again."

The doctor laughed a little, watching the two. "I'll be back to check on you later. Get some rest," he said, turning to head out of the room.

"You're an unbelievable ass, you know that?"

"Yeah, I do have a great ass."

"_Rest_, Dean. Listen to the good doctor, ignore those voices in your head telling you to the exact opposite of what people tell you."

The doctor closed the door, listening to the two argue as he walked to the next room.

"_You _rest, Panda eyes."

"_You _rest, Rasputin."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Rest or I'll make good on my impound threat."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"You cut me deep, Shrek."

"Moron."

"Bitch."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"_Rest."_

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Hospitals have vending machines, right?"

"I give up."

* * *

THE END.

* * *

**A/N: **Wow, endings are tough to write. But I hoped it was okay! If it left you feeling unsatisfied, let me know and tell me what else you wanted to see and if the majority of you feel the same way, an epilogue may be in order. But for now, it's ended – finito.

Thanks so much to all my faithful readers and loyal reviewers! You guys have all made my first SN fanfic a pleasure to write!

Anyone who's been following this story up until now, _please _make me happy and leave a review (good, bad, or inbetween) letting me know what you've thought – all you ppl who've added it to your alert list or favorites. I'm trying to break the 200-reviews mark, but if not, I've enjoyed myself immensely anyway and thank you all for reading! Love ya's::bows and exits stage left:


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